The Maroon. Reid Mayne

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.

      Volume