The Maroon. Reid Mayne
crew. Both denoted an African origin – though his features were not of a marked African type. Rather were they Asiatic, or, more correctly, Arabian; but, in some respects, differing also from Arab features. In truth, they were almost European; but the complexion again negatived the idea that the individual in question belonged to any of the nationalities of Europe. His hue was that of a light Florentine bronze, with a tinge of chestnut.
He appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen years of age; with a person well proportioned, and possessing the following characteristics: – A fine arched eyebrow, spanning an eye full and rotund; a nose slightly aquiline; thin, well-modelled lips; white teeth – whiter from contrast with the dark shading on the upper lip – and over all an ample chevelure of jet-black hair, slightly curling, but not at all woolly.
In nothing did he differ more, from the dark-skinned helots of the hold, than in his costume. While none of these had any clothing upon their bodies, or next to none, he, on the contrary, was splendidly apparelled – his face, throat, arms, and limbs, from the knee to the ankle, being the only parts not covered by a garment.
A sort of sleeveless tunic of yellow satin, with a skirt that just reached below his knees, was bound around his waist by a scarf of crimson China crape, the ends of which, hanging still lower, were adorned with a fringe-work of gold. Over the left shoulder rested loosely another scarf of blue burnous cloth, concealing the arm over which it hung; while half hidden beneath its draping could be perceived a scimitar in its richly-chased scabbard, with a hilt of carved ivory. A turban on the head, and sandals of Kordofan leather upon the feet, completed his costume.
Notwithstanding the Asiatic character of the dress, and the resemblance of the wearer to those East Indians known as Lascars, he was a true African – though not of that type which we usually associate with the word, and which suggests a certain negroism of features. He was one of a people entirely distinct from the negro – the great nation of the Foolahs (Fellattas) – that race of shepherd warriors whose country extends from the confines of Darfur to the shores of the Atlantic – the lords of Sockatoo and Timbuctoo – those fanatic followers of the false prophet who conspired the death of Laing, and murdered Mungo Park upon the Quorra. Of such race was the individual who stood on the quarter-deck of the slaver.
He was not alone. Three or four others were around him, who also differed from the wretched creatures in the hold. But their dresses of more common material, as well as other circumstances, told that they were his inferiors in rank – in short, his attendants.
The humble mien with which they regarded him, and the watchful attention to his every look and gesture, proclaimed the habitual obedience to which they were accustomed; while the turbans which they wore, and their mode of salutation – the salaam– told of an obeisance Oriental and slavish.
To the richness of the young man’s attire was added a certain haughtiness of mien that proclaimed him a person of rank – perhaps the chieftain of some African tribe.
And such, in reality, he was – a Foolah prince, from the banks of the Senegal.
There, neither his presence nor appearance would have attracted more than passing observation; but here, on the western side of the Atlantic, on board a slave-ship, both required explanation.
It was evident that he was not in the same category with his unfortunate countrymen “between decks” – doomed to perpetual captivity. There were no signs that he had been treated as a captive, but the contrary.
How, then, was his presence on board the slave-barque to be accounted for? Was he a passenger? In what relationship did he stand to the people who surrounded him?
Such, though differently worded, were the interrogatories put by the slave-merchant, as, returning from the fore-deck, after completing his inspection of the cargo, his eyes for the first time fell upon the young Fellatta.
“Blesh my shtars, Captain Showler!” cried he, holding up both hands, and looking with astonishment at the turbaned individuals on the quarter-deck. “Blesh my shtars!” he repeated; “what ish all thish? S’help my Gott! theesh fellows are not shlaves, are they?”
“No, Mister Jessuron, no. They ain’t slaves, not all on ’em ain’t. That ’ere fine fellow, in silk and satin, air a owner o’ slaves hisself. He air a prince.”
“What dosh you say, Captin Showler? a prinshe?”
“Ye ain’t ’stonished at that, air ye? ’Tain’t the fust time I’ve had an African prince for a passenger. This yeer’s his Royal Highness the Prince Cingües, son o’ the Grand Sultan of Foota-toro. The other fellows you see thar by him are his attendants – courteers as waits on him. That with the yellow turban’s ‘gold stick;’ him in blue ’s ‘silver stick;’ an’ t’other fellow’s ‘groom o’ the chamber,’ I s’pose.”
“Sultan of Foota-toro!” exclaimed the slave-merchant, still holding up the blue umbrella in surprise; “King of the Cannibal Islandsh! Aha, a good shoke, Captain Showler! But, serious, mine friend, what for hash you tricked them out in this way? They won’t fetch a joey more in the market for all theesh fine feathers.”
“Seerus, Mister Jessuron, they’re not for the market. I sw’ar to ye the fellur’s a real Afrikin prince.”
“African fiddleshtick!” echoed the slave-merchant with an incredulous shrug. “Come, worthy captin, what’sh the mashquerade about?”
“Not a bit of that, ole fellur! ’Sure ye the nigger’s a prince, and my passenger – nothing more or less.”
“S’help you gott, ish it so?”
“So help me that!” emphatically replied the skipper. “It’s just as I’ve told ye, Mister Jessuron.”
“Blesh my soul! – a passenger, you shay?”
“Yes; and he’s paid his passage, too – like a prince, as he is.”
“But what’s hish business here in Shamaica?”
“Ah! that’s altogether a kewrious story, Mister Jessuron. You’ll hardly guess his bizness, I reckon?”
“Lesh hear it, friend Showler.”
“Well, then, the story air this: ’Bout twelve months ago an army o’ Mandingoes attacked the town of Old Foota-toro, and, ’mong other plunder, carried off one o’ his daughters – own sister to the young fellur you see there. They sold her to a West India trader; who, in course, brought the girl over here to some o’ the islands; which one ain’t known. Old Foota-toro, like the rest o’ ’em, thinks the slaves are all fetched to one place; and as he’s half beside himself ’bout the loss of this gurl – she war his favourite, and a sort of a court belle among ’em – he’s sent the brother to search her out, and get her back from whoever hez purchased her on this side. There’s the hul story for you.”
The expression that had been gathering on the countenance of the Jew, while this relation was being made to him, indicated something more than a common interest in the tale – something beyond mere curiosity. At the same time, he seemed as if trying to conceal any outward sign of emotion, by preserving, as much as possible, the rigidity of his features.
“Blesh my soul!” he exclaimed, as the skipper had concluded. “Ash I live, a wonderful shtory! But how ish he ever to find hish sister? He might ash well look for a needle in a hayshtack.”
“Wall, that’s true enough,” replied the slave-skipper. “As for that,” added he, with an air of stoical indifference, “’taint no business o’ mine. My affair hez been to carry the young fellur acrost the Atlantic; an’ I’m willin’ to take him back on the same tarms, and at the same price, if he kin pay it.”
“Did he pay you a goodsh price?” inquired the Jew, with evident interest in the answer.
“He paid like a prince, as I’ve told you. D’ye see that batch o’ yellow Mandingoes by the windlass yonder?”
“Yesh-yesh!”
“Forty there air – all told.”
“Wen?”
“Twenty