Майн Рид
The Maroon

Volume One – Chapter Thirteen
Quashie

In less than half an hour after the brief conversation between Mr Montagu Smythje and the young steerage passenger, the Sea Nymph had got warped into port, and was lying alongside the wharf.

A gangway-plank was stretched from the shore; and over this, men and women, of all shades of colour, from blonde to ebony black, and of as many different callings, came crowding aboard; while the passengers, sick of the ship and everything belonging to her, hastened to get on shore.

Half-naked porters – black, brown, and yellow – commenced wrangling over the luggage – dragging trunks, boxes, and bags in every direction but the right one, and clamouring their gumbo jargon with a volubility that resembled the jabbering of apes.

On the wharf appeared a number of wheeled vehicles, that had evidently been awaiting the arrival of the ship – not hackneys, as would have been the case in a European port, but private carriages – some of them handsome “curricles” drawn by a pair, and driven by black Jehus in livery; others only gigs with a single horse, or two-wheelers of even an inferior description – according to the wealth or style of the individual for whose transport each had been brought to the port.

Waggons, too, with teams of oxen – some having eight in the yoke – stood near the landing-place, waiting for baggage: the naked black drivers lounging silently by the animals, or occasionally calling them by their names, and talking to them, just as if their speeches had been understood!

Among the different carriages ranged along the wharf, a handsome barouche appeared conspicuous. It was attached to a pair of cream-coloured horses, splendidly caparisoned. A mulatto coachman sat upon the box, shining in a livery of lightest green, with yellow facings; while a footman, in garments of like hue, attended at the carriage-step, holding the door for some one to get in.

Herbert Vaughan, standing on the fore-deck of the Sea Nymph– as yet undecided as to whether he should then go ashore – had noticed this magnificent equipage. He was still gazing upon it, when his attention was attracted to two gentlemen, who, having walked direct from the vessel, had just arrived by the side of the carriage. A white servant followed them; and behind were two negro attendants, carrying a number of parcels of light luggage. One of the gentlemen and the white servant were easily recognised by Herbert: they were Mr Montagu Smythje and his valet.

Herbert now recalled the odd expression made use of, but the moment before, by his fellow-passenger – that he was “consigned” to the proprietor of Mount Welcome.

The carriage having received Mr Montagu Smythje, and the footman having mounted the box – leaving the rumble to the English valet – was driven off at full speed; the second gentleman, who appeared to be an overseer, following on horseback as an escort.

Herbert watched the receding vehicle, until a turn in the road hid it from his view; and then, dropping his eyes towards the deck, he stood for some moments in a reflective attitude, – revolving in his mind some thoughts that were far from agreeable.

No one there to meet him and bid him welcome!

The countenance of the young adventurer became clouded under the influence of this thought; and he stood silently gazing upon the deck with eyes that saw not.

“Sa!” said a negro boy, at this moment stepping up and interrupting his reflections.

“Ha!” rejoined Herbert, looking up and perceiving, with some surprise, that the darkey was regarding him with a fixed stare. “What might you want, my lad? If it be money, I have none to give you.”

“Money, sa? wharra fo’ Quashie want money? He do wha’ massr bid. Young buckra ready go now?”

“Ready to go! where? – what mean you, boy?”

“Go fo’ da great house.”

“Great house! of what great house are you speaking?”

“Moun’ Welc’m’, sa – Massr Va’n. You fo’ Massr Va’n, sa?”

“What!” exclaimed Herbert, in surprise, at the same time scanning the darkey from head to foot; “how do you know that, my boy?”

“Quashie know dat well ’nuf. Cappen ob da big ship, obaseeah say so. Obaseeah point out young buckra from de waff – he send Quashie fetch young buckra to Moun’ Welc’m’. Ready go now, sa?”

“You are from Mount Welcome, then?”

“Ya, sa – me hoss-boy da, an’ pose-boy – fetch pony for young Englis’ buckra. Obaseeah he bring b’rouche for grand Englis’ buckra. Baggage dey go in de ox-waggon.”

“Where is your pony?”

“Up yonna, sa; on de waff, sa. Ready go, sa?”

“All right,” said Herbert, now comprehending the situation of affairs. “Shoulder that portmanteau, and toss it into the waggon. Which road am I to take?”

“Can’t miss um road, sa – straight up da ribber till you come to de crossin’. Dar you take de road dat don’t lead to da leff – you soon see Moun’ Welc’m’, sa.”

“How far is it?”

“Bout sebben or eight mile, sa – reach dar long ’fore sun-down; pony go like de berry lightnin’. Sure you no keep to da left by da crossin’.”

Thus instructed, the young steerage-passenger took his departure from the ship – after bidding adieu to the friendly tars, who had treated him so handsomely during his irksome voyage.

With his gun, a single-barrelled fowling-piece, on his shoulder, he strode over the platform, and up the wooden wharf. Then detaching the pony from the wheel of the ox-waggon, to which it had been tied, he threw himself into the saddle, and trotted off along the road pointed out as the one that would conduct him to Mount Welcome.

The excitement produced by the sudden change from ship to shore – the stir of the streets through which he had to pass – the novel sights and sounds that at every step saluted his eyes and ears – hindered Herbert Vaughan from thinking of anything that concerned himself.

Only for a short time, however, was his mind thus distracted from dwelling on his own affairs. Before he had ridden far, the road – hitherto bordered by houses – entered under a dark canopy of forest foliage; and the young traveller, all at once, found himself surrounded by a perfect solitude.

Under the sombre shadow of the trees, his spirit soon returned to its former gloomy forebodings; and, riding more slowly over a stretch of the road where the ground was wet and boggy, he fell into a train of thoughts that were anything but pleasant.

The subject of his reflections may be easily guessed. He had not failed to notice – how could he? – the distinction made between himself and his fellow-voyager. While a splendid equipage had been waiting for the latter – and his landing had been made a sort of ovation, how different was the means of transport provided for him!

“By the memory of my father!” muttered he, as he rode on, “it is an insult I shall not overlook: an insult to him more than to myself. But for the fulfilment of his dying wish, I should not go one step farther and as he said this, he drew his rough roadster to a halt – as if half-resolved to put his hypothetic threat into practice.

“Perhaps,” he continued, again moving forward, with a more hopeful air, “perhaps there may be some mistake? But no,” he added with a strong emphasis on the negative monosyllable, “there can be none! This shallow fop is a young man of fortune – I a child of misfortune;” and he smiled bitterly at the antithesis he had drawn; “that is the reason why such a distinction has been made between us. Be it so!” he continued, after a pause. “Poor as I am, this churlish relative will find me as proud as himself. I shall return him scorn for scorn. I shall demand an explanation of his behaviour; and the sooner I have it the better!”

As if stimulated by a sense of the outrage, as also by a half-formed purpose of retaliation, the young adventurer gave the whip to his shaggy steed, and dashed onward at full gallop.

Volume One – Chapter Fourteen
Travelling at the Tail

For nearly an hour did the cob continue its gallop, without pause or slacking. The road was a wide one, much tracked by wheels; and, as it ran in a direct course, the rider took it for granted he was keeping the right path. Now and then he caught a glimpse of water through the trees – no doubt, the river mentioned in the directions given him by the darkey.

The crossing at length came in sight, causing him to desist from his rapid pace – in order that he might ford the stream. There was no appearance of a bridge. The water, however, was only knee-deep; and, without hesitation, the pony plunged in and waded over.

Herbert halted on the opposite bank: for there appeared in front of him a dilemma. The road forked. The negro boy had warned him of this – telling him at the same time to take the one that didn’t lead to “da leff”; but instead of two “tines” to the fork, there were three!

Here was a puzzle. It was easy enough to know which of the three not to take – the one that did lead to “da leff”; but which of the other two was to be chosen was the point that appeared to present a difficulty in the solution. Both were plain, good roads; and each as likely as the other to be the one which would conduct him to Mount Welcome.

Had his rider left the pony to its own guidance, perhaps it would have chosen the right road. In all likelihood he would have done so in the end; but, before determining on any particular line of action, he thought it better to look for the wheel-tracks of the carriage, that he knew must have passed in advance of him.

While thus cogitating, the silence occasioned by his momentary halt was all at once interrupted by a voice that sounded at his very side, and the tones of which he fancied were not new to him.

On suddenly turning in the saddle, and looking in the direction whence the voice appeared to proceed, what was his astonishment on beholding the negro boy – the veritable Quashie!

“Da, sa! das da crossin’ me you tell ’bout; you no take by de leff – dat lead to ole Jew penn; nor da right – he go to Mon’gew Cassel; de middle Massr Va’n road – he go straight na Moun’ Welc’m’.”

The young traveller sat for some moments without speaking, or making reply in any way – surprise, as by a spell, holding him silent. He had left the boy on the forward deck of the ship, to look after his luggage; and he had seen him – he could almost swear to it – still on board, as he rode away from the wharf! Moreover, he had ridden a stretch of many miles – most of the way at full gallop, and all of it at a pace with which no pedestrian could possibly have kept up! How, then, was he to account for the lad’s presence upon the spot?

This was the first question that occurred to him; and which he put to the darkey, as soon as he had sufficiently recovered from his surprise to be able to speak.

“Quashie foller young buckra – at him pony heels.”

The answer went but a short way towards enlightening the “young buckra;” since he still believed it utterly impossible for any human being to have travelled as fast as he had ridden.

“At the pony’s heels! What, my black skin! do you mean to say you have run all the way after me from the landing-place?”

“Ya, sa: dat hab Quashie do.”

“But I saw you on board the ship as I started off. How on earth could you have overtaken me?”

“Yaw, massa, dat wa’ easy ’nuf. Young buckra, he start off; Quashie, he put him porkmantle in da ox-waggon, an’ den he foller. Buckra, he go slow at fuss, Quashie soon cotch up, and den easy run ’long wi’ da pony – not much in dat, sa.”

“Not much! Why, you imp of darkness, I have been riding at the rate of ten miles an hour, and how you’ve kept up with me is beyond my comprehension! Well, you’re a noble runner, that I will say! I’d back you at a foot-race against all comers, whether black ones or white ones. The middle road, you say?”

“Ya, sa, dat de way to Moun’ Welc’m’; you soon see de big gate ob de plantation.”

Herbert headed his roadster in the direction indicated; and moved onward along the path – his thoughts still dwelling on the odd incident.

He had proceeded but a few lengths of his pony, when he was tempted to look back – partly to ascertain if Quashie was still following him, and partly with the intention of putting a query to this singular escort.

A fresh surprise was in store for him. The darkey was nowhere to be seen! Neither to the right, nor the left, nor yet in the rear, was he visible!

“Where the deuce can the boy have gone?” inquired Herbert, involuntarily, at the same time scanning the underwood on both sides of the road.

“Hya, sa!” answered a voice, that appeared to come out of the ground close behind – while at the same instant the brown mop of Quashie, just visible over the croup of the cob, proclaimed his whereabouts.

How the boy had been able to keep up with the pony was at length explained: he had been holding on to its tail!

There was something so ludicrous in the sight, that the young Englishman forgot for a moment the grave thoughts that had been harassing him; and once more checking his steed into a halt, gave utterance to roars of laughter. The darkey joined in his mirth with a grin that extended his mouth from ear to ear – though he was utterly unconscious of what the young buckra was laughing at. He could not see anything comic in a custom which he was almost daily in the habit of practising – for it was not the first time Quashie had travelled at the tail of a horse.

Journeying about half a mile further along the main road, the entrance-gate of Mount Welcome was reached. There was no lodge – only a pair of grand stone piers, with a wing of strong mason-work on each flank, and a massive folding gate between them.

From the directions Herbert had already received, he might have known this to be the entrance to his uncle’s plantation; but Quashie, still clinging to the pony’s tail, removed all doubt by crying out, —

“Da’s da gate, buckra gemman – da’s de way fo’ Moun’ Welc’m’!”

On passing through the gateway, the mansion itself came in sight – its white walls and green jalousies shining conspicuously at the extreme end of the long avenue; which last, with its bordering rows of palms and tamarinds, gave to the approach an air of aristocratic grandeur.

Herbert had been prepared for something of this kind. He had heard at home that his father’s brother was a man of great wealth; and this was nearly all his father had himself known respecting him.

The equipage which had transported his more favoured fellow-voyager – and which had passed over the same road about an hour before him – also gave evidence of the grand style in which his uncle lived.

The mansion now before his eyes was in correspondence with what he had heard and seen. There could be no doubt that his uncle was one of the grandees of the island.

The reflection gave him less pleasure than pain. His pride had been already wounded; and as he looked up the noble avenue, he was oppressed with a presentiment that some even greater humiliation was in store for him.

“Tell me, Quashie,” said he, after a spell of painful reflection, “was it your master himself who gave you directions about conducting me to Mount Welcome? Or did you have your orders from the overseer?”

“Massr no me speak ’bout you, sa; I no hear him say nuffin.”

“The overseer, then?”

“Ya, sa, de obaseeah.”

“What did he tell you to do? Tell me as near as you can; and I may make you a present one of these days.”

“Gorry, massr buckra! I you tell all he say, ’zactly as he say um. ‘Quashie,’ say he, ‘Quashie,’ he say, ‘you go down board de big ship; you see dat ere young buckra’ – dat war yourseff, sa – ‘you fotch ’im up to de ox-waggon, you fotch ’im baggage, too; you mount ’im on Coco,’ – da’s de pony’s name – ‘and den you fetch him home to my house.’ Da’s all he say – ebbery word.”

“To his house? Mount Welcome, you mean!”

“No, young buckra gemman – to de obaseeah own house. And now we jess got to da road dat lead dar. Dis way, sa! dis way!”

The darkey pointed to a bye-road, that, forking off from the main avenue, ran in the direction of the ridge, where it entered into a tract of thick woods.

Herbert checked the pony to a halt, and sat gazing at his guide, in mute surprise.

“Dis way, sa!” repeated the boy. “Yonna’s de obaseeah’s house. You see wha da smoke rise, jess ober de big trees?”

“What do you mean, my good fellow? What have I to do with the overseer’s house?”

“We’s agwine da, sa.”

“Who? you?”

“Boff, sa; an’ Coco too.”

“Have you taken leave of your senses, you imp of darkness?”

“No, sa; Quashie only do what him bid. Da obaseeah Quashie bid fotch young buckra to him house. Dis yeer’s da way.”

“I tell you, boy, you must be mistaken. It is to Mount Welcome I am going – my uncle’s house – up yonder!”

“No, buckra gemman, me no mistake. Da obaseeah berry partikler ’bout dat same. He tell me you no fo’ da great house – da Buff. He say me fotch you to ’im own house.”

“Are you sure of that?” Herbert, as he put this interrogatory, leant forward in the saddle, and listened attentively for the reply.

“Lor, buckra gemman! I’se sure ob it as de sun am in de hebbens dar. I swa’ it, if you like.”

On hearing this positive affirmation, the young Englishman sat for a moment, as if wrapt in a profound and painful reverie. His breast rose and fell as though some terrible truth was breaking upon him, which he was endeavouring to disbelieve.

At this moment, Quashie caught the rein of the bridle, and was about to lead the pony into the bye-path.

“No!” shouted the rider, in a voice loud and angry. “Let go, boy! let go, or I’ll give you the whip. This is my way.”

And, wrenching the rein from the grasp of his sable guide, he headed the pony back into the main avenue.

Then laying on the lash with all his might, he pressed forward, at full gallop, in the direction of the “great house.”

Volume One – Chapter Fifteen
A Slippery Floor

The carriage conveying Mr Montagu Smythje from Montego Bay to Mount Welcome, passed up the avenue and arrived at the great house, just one hour before Herbert Vaughan, mounted on his rough roadster, and guided by Quashie, made his appearance at the entrance-gate of the plantation.

Mr Smythje had arrived at half-past three, p.m. Four was the regular dining hour at Mount Welcome: so that there was just neat time for the valet to unpack the ample valises and portmanteaus, and dress his master for the table.

It had been the aim of Mr Vaughan to make the introduction of Mr Smythje to his daughter as effective as possible. He was sage enough to know the power of first appearances.

For this reason, he had managed to keep them apart until the moment of meeting at the dinner-table, when both should appear under the advantage of a full dress.

So far as the impression to be made on Mr Smythje was concerned, Mr Vaughan’s scheme was perfectly successful. His daughter really appeared superb – radiant as the crimson quamoclit that glistened amidst the plaits of her hair; graceful as nature, and elegant as art, could make her.

The heart of the cockney felt – perhaps for the first time in his life – that true sentiment of admiration which beauty, combined with virgin modesty, is almost certain to inspire.

For a moment, the remembrance of the ballet girl and the lewd recollections of the bagnio were obliterated; and a graver and nobler inspiration took their place.

Even vulgar Loftus Vaughan had skill enough to note this effect; but how long it would last – how long the plant of a pure passion would flourish in that uncongenial soil – was a question which it required an abler physiologist than Loftus Vaughan to determine.

The sugar-planter congratulated himself upon his success. Smythje was smitten, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Had the calculating father been equally anxious to perceive a reciprocity of this fine first impression, he would have been doomed to a disappointment. As certainly as that of Mr Smythje was a sentiment of admiration, so certainly was that of Kate Vaughan a feeling of dégout; or at least of indifference.

In truth, the Londoner had made a most unfortunate début. A contretemps had occurred in the ceremony of introduction – just at that crisis-moment when all eyes are sharply set, and all ears acutely bent in mutual reconnoissance. Mr Vaughan had committed a grand error in causing the presentation to take place in the grand hall. Ice itself was not more slippery than its floor. The consequence was unavoidable; and the cockney, essaying one of his most graceful attitudes, fell flat upon his face at the feet of her he simply intended to have saluted!

In that fall he had lost everything – every chance of winning Kate Vaughan’s heart. A thousand acts of gracefulness, a thousand deeds of heroism, would not have set him up again, after that unfortunate fall. It was a clear paraphrase of the downfall of Humpty Dumpty – the restoration alike hopeless, alike impossible.

Mr Montagu Smythje was too well stocked with self-complacency to suffer much embarrassment from a lapsus of so trifling a character. His valet had him upon his feet in a trice; and with a “Haw-haw!” and the remark that the floor was “demmed swippeway,” he crept cautiously to his chair, and seated himself.

Though the Londoner had been all his life accustomed to dining well, he could not help indulging in some surprise at the plentiful and luxurious repast that was placed before him.

Perhaps in no part of the world does the table groan under a greater load of rich viands than in the West Indian Islands. In the prosperous times of sugar-planting, a Jamaican dinner was deserving of the name of feast. Turtle was the common soup; and the most sumptuous dishes were arranged thickly over the board. Even the ordinary every-day dessert was a spread worthy of Apicius; and the wines – instead of those dull twin poisons, port and sherry – were south-side Madeira, champagne, claret, and sparkling hock – all quaffed in copious flagons, plenteous as small beer.

These were glorious times for the white-skinned oligarchy of the sugar islands – the days of revel and rollicky living – before the wedge of Wilberforce split the dark pedestal which propped up their pomp and prosperity.

A dinner of this good old-fashioned style had Loftus Vaughan prepared for his English guest. Behind the chairs appeared troops of coloured attendants, gliding silently over the smooth floor. A constant stream of domestics poured in and out of the hall, fetching and removing the dishes and plates, or carrying the wine decanters in silver coolers. Young girls of various shades of complexion – some nearly white – stood at intervals around the table, fanning the guests with long peacock plumes, and filling the great hall with an artificial current of delicious coolness.

Montagu Smythje was delighted. Even in his “dear metwopolis” he had never dined so luxuriously.

“Spwendid, spwendid – ’pon honaw! A dinner fit for a pwince!” he exclaimed, in compliment to his entertainer.

The savoury dishes were partaken of, and removed, and the table, arranged for dessert, exhibited that gorgeous profusion which a tropic clime can alone produce – where almost every order of the botanical world supplies some fruit or berry of rarest excellence. Alone in the intertropical regions of the New-World may such variety be seen – a dessert table upon which Pomona appears to have poured forth her golden cornucopiae.

The cloth having been removed from the highly-polished table, the sparkling decanters were once more passed round. In honour of his guest, the planter had already made free with his own wines, all of which were of most excellent quality. Loftus Vaughan was at that moment at a maximum of enjoyment.

Just at that very moment, however, a cloud was making its appearance on the edge of the sky.

It was a very little cloud, and still very far off; but, for all that, a careful observer could have seen that its shadow became reflected on the brow of the planter.

Literally speaking, this cloud was an object on the earth, of shape half human, half equine, that appeared near the extreme end of the long avenue, moving towards the house.

When first seen by Loftus Vaughan, it was still distant, though not so far off but that, with the naked eye, he could distinguish a man on horseback.

From that moment he might have been observed to turn about in his chair – at short intervals casting uneasy glances upon the centaurean form that was gradually growing bigger as it advanced.

For a time, the expression on the face of Mr Vaughan was far from being a marked one. The looks that conveyed it were furtive, and might have passed unnoticed by the superficial observer. They had, in fact, escaped the notice both of his daughter and his guest; and it was not until after the horseman had made halt at the entrance of the bye-path, and was seen coming on for the house, that the attention of either was drawn to the singular behaviour of Mr Vaughan. Then, however, his nervous anxiety had become so undisguisedly patent, as to elicit from Miss Vaughan an ejaculation of alarm; while the cockney involuntarily exclaimed, “Bless ma soul!” adding the interrogatory, —

“Anything wong, sir?”

“Oh! nothing!” stammered the planter; “only – only – a little surprise – that’s all.”

“Surprise, papa! what has caused it? Oh, see! yonder is some one on horseback – a man – a young man. I declare it is our own pony he is riding; and that is Quashie running behind him! How very amusing! Papa, what is it all about?”

“Tut! sit down, child!” commanded the father, in a tone of nervous perplexity. “Sit down, I say! Whoever it be, it will be time enough to know when he arrives. Kate! Kate! ’tis not well-bred of you to interrupt our dessert. Mr Smythje – glass of Madeira with you, sir?”

“Plesyaw!” answered the exquisite, turning once more to the table, and occupying himself with the decanter.

Kate obeyed the command with a look that expressed both reluctance and surprise. She was slightly awed, too; not so much by the words, as the severe glance that accompanied them. She made no reply, but sat gazing with a mystified air in the face of her father – who, hob-nobbing with his guest, affected not to notice her.

The pony and his rider were no longer visible: as they were now too close to the house to be seen over the sill of the window; but the clattering hoofs could be heard, the sounds coming nearer and nearer.

Mr Vaughan was endeavouring to appear collected, and to say something; but his sang froid was assumed and unnatural; and being unable to keep up the conversation, an ominous silence succeeded.

The sound of the hoofs ceased to be heard. The pony, having arrived under the windows, had been brought to a halt.

Then there were voices – earnest and rather loud. They were succeeded by the noise of footsteps on the stone stairway. Someone was coming up the steps.

Mr Vaughan looked aghast. All his fine plans were about to be frustrated. There was a hitch in the programme – Quashie had failed in the performance of his part.

“Aha!” ejaculated the planter, with returning delight, as the smooth, trim countenance of his overseer made its appearance above the landing. “Mr Trusty wishes to speak with me. Your pardon, Mr Smythje – only for one moment.”

Mr Vaughan rose from his seat, and hastened, as if wishing to meet the overseer, before the latter could enter the room. Trusty, however, had already stepped inside the doorway; and, not being much of a diplomatist, had bluntly declared his errand – in sotto voce, it is true, but still not low enough to hinder a part of his communication from being heard. Among other words, the phrase “your nephew” reached the ears of Kate – at that moment keenly bent to catch every sound.

The reply was also partially heard, though delivered in a low and apparently tremulous voice: – “Show him – summer-house – garden – tell him to wait – there presently.”

Mr Vaughan turned back to the table with a half-satisfied air. He was fancying that he had escaped from his dilemma, at least, for the time; but the expression which he perceived on the countenance of his daughter restored his suspicions that all was not right.

Scarce a second was he left in doubt, for almost on the instant, Kate cried out, in a tone of pleased surprise, —

“Oh, papa, what do I hear? Did not Mr Trusty say something about ‘your nephew’? After all, has cousin come? Is it he who – ”

“Kate, my child,” quickly interrupted her father, and appearing not to have understood her interrogatory, “you may retire to your room. Mr Smythje and I would like to have our cigar; and the smoke of tobacco don’t agree with you. Go, child – go!”

The young girl instantly rose from her chair, and hastened to obey the command – notwithstanding the protestations of Mr Smythje, who looked as if he would have much preferred her company to the cigar.

But her father hurriedly repeated the “Go, child – go!” accompanying the words with another of those severe glances which had already awed and mystified her.

Before she had passed fairly out of the great hall, however, her thoughts reverted to the unanswered interrogatory; and as she crossed the threshold of her chamber, she was heard muttering to herself:

“I wonder if cousin be come!”