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 can he want 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.” The swizzle, 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, you needn’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
