Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

Nothing had been left undone for the brilliancy of his exterior that could be achieved by scrubbing, white linen, and robust health. The smart young captain of the foretop seemed to glow and sparkle in the vertical sun, as he stood on the quay of Port Welcome, and cast a final glance of professional approval on the yards he had lately squared to a nicety and the trim of such gear and tackle aloft as seemed his own especial pride and care.

‘The Bashful Maid,’ after all the buffetings she had sustained, particularly from the late squall, having made her port in one of the smallest and most beautiful of the West India islands, now lay at anchor, fair and motionless, like a living thing sleeping on the glistening sea. It yet wanted some hours of noon, nevertheless the sun had attained a power that seemed to bake the very stones on the quay, and warmed the clear limpid water fathom deep. Even Slap-Jack protested against the heat, as he lounged and rolled into the town, to find it swarming with negroes of both sexes, sparingly clothed, but with such garments as they did wear glowing in the gaudiest colours, and carrying on their hard, woolly heads baskets containing eggs, kids, poultry, fruit, vegetables, and every kind of market produce in the island. That island was indeed one of those jewels of the Caribbean Sea to which no description can do justice.

For the men left on board ‘The Bashful Maid,’ now heaving drowsily at her anchor, it realised, with its vivid and varied hues, its fantastic outlines, its massive brakes, its feathery palms, its luxuriant redundancy of vegetation, trailing and drooping to the sparkling water’s-edge, a sailor’s idea of Paradise; while for the three Jacks rolling into the little town of Port Welcome, with its white houses, straggling streets, frequent drinking-shops, and swarming population—black, white, and coloured, it represented the desirable haven of Fiddler’s Green, where they felt, no doubt, they had arrived before their time. Slap-Jack made a remark to that effect, which was cordially endorsed by his comrades as they turned into the main thoroughfare of the town, and agreed that, in order to enjoy their holiday to the utmost, it was essential to commence with something to drink all round.

Now, ‘The Bashful Maid’ having been already a few days in port, had in that time disposed of a considerable portion of her cargo, and such an event as the arrival of a saucy brigantine, combining the attractions of a man-of-war with the advantages of a free-trader, not being an every-day occurrence among the population of Port Welcome, much stir, excitement, and increase of business was the result. The French storekeepers bid eagerly for wares of European manufacture, the French planters sent their slaves down in dozens to purchase luxuries only attainable from beyond sea, while the negroes, grinning from ear to ear, jostled and scolded each other in their desire to barter yams, plantains, fruit, poultry, and even, on occasion, pieces of actual money, for scarfs, gloves, perfumes, and ornaments—the tawdrier the better, which they thought might add to the gloss of their black skins, and set off their quaint, honest, ugly, black faces to advantage.

Here and there, too, a Carib, one of the aboriginal lords of the island, distinguished by his bronze colour, his grave demeanour—so unlike the African, and his disfigured nose, artificially flattened from infancy, would stalk solemnly away, rich in the possession of a few glass beads or a bit of tinsel, for which he had bartered all his worldly wealth, and which, like more civilised people, he valued, not at its intrinsic worth, but at its cost price. The three Jacks observed the novelties which surrounded them from different points of view according to their different characters, yet with a cool imperturbable demeanour essentially professional. To men of their calling, nothing ever appears extraordinary. They see so many strange sights in different countries, and have so little time to become acquainted with the wonders they behold, that they soon acquire a profound and philosophical indifference to everything beyond their ordinary range of experience, persuaded that the astonishment of to-day is pretty sure to be exceeded by the astonishment of to-morrow. Neither can they easily discover anything perfectly and entirely new, having usually witnessed something of the same kind before, or heard it circumstantially described at considerable length by a messmate; so that a seaman is but little impressed with the sight of a foreign town, of which, indeed, he acquires in an hour or two a knowledge not much more superficial than he has of his native village.

Bottle-Jack was in the habit of giving his opinion, as he expressed it, “free.” That it was complimentary to Port Welcome, his comrades gathered from the following sentiment:—

“I’m a gettin’ strained and weatherworn,” observed the old seaman, impressively, “and uncommon dry besides. Tell ye what it is, mates—one more cruise, and blowed if I won’t just drop my anchor here, and ride out the rest of my time all snug at my moorings.”

Smoke-Jack turned his quid with an expression of intense disgust.

“And get spliced to a nigger, old man!” said he, argumentatively. “Never go for to say it! I’m not a-goin’ to dispute as this here’s a tidy bit of a island enough, and safe anchorage. Likewise, as I’ve been told by them as tried it, plenty to drink, and good. Nor I won’t say but what a craft might put in here for a spell to refit, do a bit of caulking, and what not. But for dry-dock, mate, never go for to say it. Why you couldn’t get anything like a decent missis, man, hereaway; an’ think o’ the price o’ beer!”