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.