The Maroon

“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.

Volume One – Chapter Eleven

Loftus Vaughan on the Look-Out

Every day, after that on which he had received the two English letters – and almost every hour during daylight – might Loftus Vaughan have been seen, telescope in hand, at one of the front windows of his house, sweeping with his glass the roadstead and offing of Montego Bay.

The object of this telescopic observation was, that he might descry the Sea Nymph before she had entered the harbour: in order that his carriage should be at the port to receive the distinguished Smythje on the moment of his landing.

At this period there were no steamers trading across the Atlantic, punctual to a day, and almost to an hour. Though the letter of advice had been written several days before that on which the Sea Nymph was to sail, there could be no calculation made upon such uncertain data as winds and waves; and the ship which carried Montagu Smythje might arrive at any hour.

That some distinguished guest was expected, was a fact that had become well-known to every domestic in the establishment of Mount Welcome. Every day saw some article or articles of costly furniture brought home from the “Bay”; and the chambers of the “great house” were being freshly decorated to receive them. The house-wenches and other indoor servants were furnished with new dresses, some even with liveries – an unusual piece of finery in Jamaica – while shoes and stockings were forced upon feet that, perhaps, had never felt such impedimenta before, and whose owners would have been only too glad to have escaped the torture of wearing them.

It need scarcely be said that the planter was undergoing all this extravagant expenditure for the reception of Mr Montagu Smythje, and him alone. Had it been only his nephew that was expected, no such continuous look-out would have been kept, and no such preparations made to do him honour on his arrival.

Neither do Mr Vaughan’s motives require explanation: the reader will ere this have surmised them. He was the father of a daughter ready at any moment for marriage. Mr Montagu Smythje was, in his eyes, not only an eligible, but highly desirable, specimen for a son-in-law. The young man was possessed of a splendid property, as Mr Vaughan well knew: for the worthy planter was not only Custos Rotulorum, but for many long years had been custos of Montagu Castle, and could tell its value to a shilling “currency.” It lay contiguous to his own. He had looked with a longing eye upon its broad acres and black retainers, until he had become imbued with a desire, amounting indeed to a passion, to possess it – if not in his own right, at least in that of his daughter. The union of the two estates, Mount Welcome and Montagu Castle, would make a magnificent domain – one of the richest in the Island.

To accomplish this object had long been the wish of Loftus Vaughan. It had grown and grown upon him, till it had become the most cherished purpose of his heart.

Let us not conceal a really creditable motive that Mr Vaughan had for desiring this union. He had been too long in Jamaica to be ignorant of the true social position of his daughter. However beautiful and accomplished Kate Vaughan was; however much her father loved her – and, to do him justice, his paternal affection was of the strongest – he knew that her mother was a quadroon, and she only a mustee. No matter how little trace there might be of the taint– however imperceptible to the outward eye – he knew that between her and the young gentlemen of his acquaintance – that is, those who would have been eligible – there was still enough to erect a certain social barrier. He knew, moreover, that young Englishmen, especially on their first arrival, make light of this barrier; in fact, altogether disregard it, until corrupted by the “society” of the island.

In his match-making designs the Jamaica planter was not more of a sinner than hundreds of other parents both at home and abroad; and there is this much in his favour: that, perhaps, his affection for his daughter, and the desire of ennobling her – for by such an alliance would the taint be extinguished– were the chief motives for the conduct he was pursuing in regard to Montagu Smythje.

So far Mr Vaughan’s conduct may be excused. But, unfortunately, the studied courtesy with which he was preparing to receive the lord of Montagu Castle presented a damaging contrast to the discourtesy he had designed for his kinsman.

In the latter case, both his acts and intentions were paltry beyond parallel.

The announcement in the nephew’s letter, that he had taken a steerage passage, had been to his uncle a source of bitter chagrin. Not that he would have cared a whit about the thing, had the young fellow voyaged in any other vessel than the Sea Nymph, or had he travelled unrecognised. What troubled Mr Vaughan was the fear that the relationship might become known to Mr Montagu Smythje, and thus create in the mind of the latter a suspicion of his, the planter’s, respectability.

The dread of this exposé so preyed upon Mr Vaughan’s mind that, had it been possible, he would have denied the relationship altogether.

He had conceived a hope that this recognition might not take place during the voyage: building his hope on the character of the aristocratic Cockney, which he knew to be a type of supercilious pride. Confiding in the faith that nothing might transpire on board ship to make Mr Smythje acquainted with the connection, he was determined there should be no chance on shore. To preclude the possibility of such a thing, he had conceived a design as childish as it was cruel: his nephew was to be kept out of the way.

The plan of action he had traced out long before the arrival of the Sea Nymph. Mr Montagu Smythje was to be met at the landing, and at once hurried off to Mount Welcome. Herbert Vaughan was likewise to be conducted thither; but not direct.

A different means of transport was to be provided for him; and on his arrival within the bounds of the plantation, he was to be taken by a private road to the house of the overseer – which stood in a secluded corner of the valley, nearly half a mile distant from the “Buff.”

Here he was to remain as the guest of the latter, until such time as his uncle could find a way of disposing of him – either by procuring some employment for him at Montego Bay, or the situation of book-keeper on some distant plantation.

With this ingenious contrivance did Mr

Vaughan await the arrival of his guests.

It was upon the third day after receiving his letters of advice, and near the hour of noon, that the planter, playing as usual with his telescope, perceived in the offing of Montego Bay, and standing in for the port, a large square-rigged vessel – a ship.

It might be the Sea Nymph, and it might not; but, taking into consideration some circumstances, known to Mr Vaughan, the probabilities were that it was the expected vessel.

Whether or no, the planter was determined that the programme, he had so ingeniously sketched out, should not be spoiled by any mismanagement in the performance; and its execution was ordered upon the instant.

Bells were rung for a general muster of the domestics; a horn was sounded to summon the overseer; and, in less than half an hour afterwards, the family barouche – a handsome equipage, drawn by a pair of splendidly-caparisoned horses – was on the road to the Bay, with the overseer on horseback, riding as an escort behind it.

In rear of this went a waggon, to which eight large oxen were attached; and behind the waggon appeared an escort sui generis: a rough negro boy, mounted on the shaggiest of steeds, who was no other than the post-boy already mentioned – the identical Quashie.

Quashie was not on his usual diurnal duty: his present errand was one of a far more important character, and the duty confided to him of an exceedingly delicate nature.

At this hour the great hall of Mount Welcome exhibited a scene that, to the eye of a stranger to West Indian customs, might have appeared curious enough.

Scattered over the floor, at certain distances from each other, were some six or eight negro girls, or “wenches,” as they are called, most of them being of the younger brood of the plantation blacks. All were down on their knees – each one having by her side, and within reach of her hand, an orange freshly cut in halves, some bees’-wax, and a portion of the fibrous pericarp of a cocoa-nut.

The floor itself was without carpet of any kind; but instead of being of plain deal, it presented a mosaic of hard woods, of different colours – among which might be recognised the mahogany and heart-wood, the bread-nut and bully-tree.

To give the tesselated surface a polish was the business of the dark damsels on their knees; and for that purpose were the oranges and cocoa-husks provided.

To an islander the sight was one of common, indeed daily, occurrence. The lustre of his hall floor is a matter of pride with a Jamaica planter; as much so as the quality or pattern of his drawing-room carpet to a householder at home; and every day, and at the same hour, the dark-skinned housemaids make their appearance, and renew the glitter of the surface, whose gloss has been tarnished by the revels of the preceding night.

The hour set apart for this quaint custom is just before laying the cloth for dinner – about three or four o’clock; and that she may not sully the polish while carrying in the dishes, the barefooted Abigail adopts a plan that deserves mention on account of its originality.

Having provided herself with two small pieces of linen or cotton cloth, she spreads them out upon the floor, and then places a foot upon each. As the toes of a West Indian house-wench are almost as prehensile as her fingers, she finds no difficulty in “cramping” the cloth and holding it between the “big toe” and its nearest neighbour; and with this simple chaussure she is enabled to slide over the floor without in the least degree “smoutching” its gloss, or leaving any sign of her passage over its shining surface.

While such a busy scene was transpiring in the great hall of Mount Welcome, one of a different character, but of equal activity, was going on in the kitchen. This “office” stood a little apart from the main dwelling, communicating with its lower storey by a covered gallery. Along this passage black and yellow wenches could be seen constantly going and returning, each with her load – a haunch of venison, a ham of the wild hog, a turtle, ramier pigeons, and mountain crabs, all on their way to the spit, the stew-pan, or the chafing-dish.

A similar sight might have been witnessed at Mount Welcome any other day in the year; but perhaps with a less abundant variety in the materials, and with not half so much movement among the staff of wenches pertaining to the cuisine– whose excited manner in the performance of their specific duties testified, as much as the variety of luxuries lying around, that on this particular day a repast of the most sumptuous kind was expected from their skill.