Chapter XII

On the morning when the Severn was to reach Trinidad, everybody was up betimes and eagerly looking for the expected land. Nora and Marian went up on deck before breakfast, and there found Dr Whitaker, opera-glass in hand, scanning the horizon for the first sight of his native island. ‘I haven’t seen it or my dear father,’ he said to Marian, ‘for nearly ten years, and I can’t tell you how anxious I am once more to see him. I wonder whether he’ll have altered much! But there—ten years is a long time. After ten years, one’s pictures of home and friends begin to get terribly indefinite. Still, I shall know him—I’m sure I shall know him. He’ll be on the wharf to welcome us in, and I’m sure I shall recognise his dear old face again.’

‘Your father’s very well known in the island, the captain tells me,’ Marian said, anxious to show some interest in what interested him so much. ‘I believe he was very influential in helping to get slavery abolished.’

‘He was,’ the young doctor answered, kindling up afresh with his ever-ready enthusiasm—‘he was; very influential. Mr Wilberforce considered that my father, Robert Whitaker, was one of his most powerful coloured supporters in any of the colonies. I’m proud of my father, Mrs Hawthorn—proud of the part he bore in the great revolution which freed my race. I’m proud to think that I’m the son of such a man as Robert Whitaker.’

‘Now, then, ladies,’ the captain put in drily, coming upon them suddenly from behind; ‘breakfast’s ready, and you won’t sight Trinidad, I take it, for at least another fifty minutes. Plenty of time to get your breakfast quietly and comfortably, and pack your traps up, before you come in sight of the Port-o’-Spain lighthouse.’

After breakfast, they all hurried up on deck once more, and soon the gray peaks and rocky sierras of Trinidad began to heave in sight straight in front of them. Slowly the land drew closer and closer, till at last the port and town lay full in sight before them. Dr Whitaker was overflowing with excitement as they reached the wharf. ‘In ten minutes,’ he cried to Marian—‘in ten minutes, I shall see my dear father.’

It was a strange and motley scene, ever fresh and interesting to the new-comer from Europe, that first glimpse of tropical life from the crowded deck of an ocean steamer. The Severn stood off, waiting for the gangways to be lowered on board, but close up to the high wooden pier of the lively, bustling, little harbour. In front lay the busy wharf, all alive with a teeming swarm of black faces—men in light and ragged jackets, women in thin white muslins and scarlet turbans, children barefooted and half naked, lying sprawling idly in the very eye of the sun. Behind, white houses with green venetian blinds; waving palm-trees; tall hills; a blazing pale blue sky; a great haze of light and shimmer and glare and fervour. All round, boats full of noisy negroes, gesticulating, shouting, swearing, laughing, and showing their big teeth every second anew in boisterous merriment. A general pervading sense of bustle and life, all meaningless and all ineffectual; much noise and little labour; a ceaseless chattering, as of monkeys in a menagerie; a purposeless running up and down on the pier and ’longshore with wonderful gesticulations; a babel of inarticulate sounds and cries and shouting and giggling. Nothing of it all clearly visible as an individual fact at first; only a confused mass of heads and faces and bandanas and dresses, out of which, as the early hubbub of arrival subsided a little, there stood forth prominently a single foremost figure—the figure of a big, heavy, oily, fat, dark mulatto, gray-haired and smooth-faced, dressed in a dirty white linen suit, and waving his soiled silk pocket-handkerchief ostentatiously before the eyes of the assembled passengers. A supple, vulgar, oleaginous man altogether, with an astonishing air of conceited self-importance, and a profound consciousness of the admiring eyes of the whole surrounding negro populace.

‘How d’ye do, captain?’ he shouted aloud in a clear but thick and slightly negro voice, mouthing his words with much volubility in the true semi-articulate African fashion. ‘Glad to see de Severn has come in puncshual to her time as usual. Good ship, de Severn; neber minds storms or nuffin.—Well, sah, who have you got on board? I’ve come down to meet de doctor and Mr Hawtorn. Trinidad is proud to welcome back her children to her shores agin. Got ’em on board, captain?—got ’em on board, sah?’

‘All right, Bobby,’ the captain answered, with easy familiarity. ‘Been having a pull at the mainsheet this morning?—Ah, I thought so. I thought you’d taken a cargo of rum aboard. Ah, you sly dog! You’ve got the look of it.’

‘Massa Bobby, him doan’t let de rum spile in him cellar,’ a ragged fat negress standing by shouted out in a stentorian voice. ‘Him know de way to keep him from spilin’, so pour him down him own troat in time—eh, Massa Bobby?’

‘Rum,’ the oily mulatto responded cheerfully, but with great dignity, raising his fat brown hand impressively before him—‘rum is de staple produck an’ chief commercial commodity of de great an’ flourishin’ island of Trinidad. To drink a moderate quantity of rum every mornin’ before brekfuss is de best way of encouragin’ de principal manufacture of dis island. I do my duty in dat respeck, I flatter myself, as faithfully as any pusson in de whole of Trinidad, not exceptin’ His Excellency de governor, who ought to set de best example to de entire community. As de recognised representative of de coloured people of dis colony, I feel bound to teach dem to encourage de manufacture of rum by my own pussonal example an’ earnest endeavour.’ And he threw back his greasy neck playfully in a pantomimic representation of the art of drinking off a good glassful of rum-and-water.

The negroes behind laughed immoderately at this sally of the man addressed as Bobby, and cheered him on with loud vociferations. ‘Evidently,’ Edward said to Nora, with a face of some disgust, ‘this creature is the chartered buffoon and chief jester to the whole of Trinidad. They all seem to recognise him and laugh at him, and I see even the captain himself knows him well of old, evidently.’

‘Bless your soul, yes,’ the captain said, overhearing the remark. ‘Everybody in the island knows Bobby. Good-natured old man, but conceited as a peacock, and foolish too.—Everybody knows you here,’ raising his voice; ‘don’t they, Bobby?’

The gray-haired mulatto took off his broad-brimmed Panama hat and bowed profoundly. ‘I flatter myself,’ he said, looking round about him complacently on the crowd of negroes, ‘dere isn’t a better known man in de whole great an’ flourishin’ island of Trinidad dan Bobby Whitaker.’

Edward and Marian started suddenly, and even Nora gave a little shiver of surprise and disappointment. ‘Whitaker,’ Edward repeated slowly—‘Whitaker—Bobby Whitaker!—You don’t mean to tell us, surely, captain, that that man’s our Dr Whitaker’s father!’

‘Yes, I do,’ the captain answered, smiling grimly. ‘That’s his father.—Dr Whitaker! hi, you, sir; where have you got to? Don’t you see?—there’s your father.’

Edward turned at once to seek for him, full of a sudden unspoken compassion. He had not far to seek. A little way off, standing irresolutely by the gunwale, with a strange terrified look in his handsome large eyes, and a painful twitching nervously evident at the trembling corners of his full mouth, Dr Whitaker gazed intently and speechlessly at the fat mulatto in the white linen suit. It was clear that the old man did not yet recognise his son; but the son had recognised his father instantaneously and unhesitatingly, as he stood there playing the buffoon in broad daylight before the whole assembled ship’s company. Edward looked at the poor young fellow with profound commiseration. Never in his life before had he seen shame and humiliation more legibly written on a man’s very limbs and features. The unhappy young mulatto, thunderstruck by the blow, had collapsed entirely. It was too terrible for him. Coming in, fresh from his English education, full of youthful hopes and vivid enthusiasms, proud of the father he had more than half forgotten, and anxious to meet once more that ideal picture he had carried away with him of the liberator of Trinidad—here he was met, on the very threshold of his native island, by this horrible living contradiction of all his fervent fancies and imaginings. The Robert Whitaker he had once known faded away as if by magic into absolute nonentity, and that voluble, greasy, self-satisfied, buffoonish old brown man was the only thing left that he could now possibly call ‘my father.’

Edward pitied him far too earnestly to obtrude just then upon his shame and sorrow. But the poor mulatto, meeting his eyes accidentally for a single second, turned upon him such a mutely appealing look of profound anguish, that Edward moved over slowly toward the grim captain and whispered to him in a low undertone: ‘Don’t speak to that man Whitaker again, I beg of you. Don’t you see his poor son there’s dying of shame for him?’

The captain stared back at him with the same curious half-sardonic look that Marian had more than once noticed upon his impassive features. ‘Dying of shame!’ he answered, smiling carelessly. ‘Ho, ho, ho! that’s a good one! Dying of shame is he, for poor old Bobby! Why, sooner or later, you know, he’ll have to get used to him. Besides, I tell you, whether you talk to him or whether you don’t, old Bobby’ll go on talking about himself as long as there’s anybody left anywhere about who’ll stand and listen to him.—You just hark there to what he’s saying now. What’s he up to next, I wonder?’

‘Yes, ladies and gentlemen,’ the old mulatto was proceeding aloud, addressing now in a set speech the laughing passengers on board the Severn, ‘I’m de Honourable Robert Whitaker, commonly called Bobby Whitaker, de leadin’ member of de coloured party in dis island. Along wit my lamented friend Mr Wilberforce, an’ de British parliament, I was de chief instrument in procurin’ de abolition of slavery an’ de freedom of de slaves troughout de whole English possessions. Millions of my fellow-men were moanin’ an’ groanin’ in a painful bondage. I have a heart dat cannot witstand de appeal of misery. I laboured for dem; I toiled for dem; I bore de brunt of de battle; an’ in de end I conquered—I conquered. Wit de aid of my friend Mr Wilberforce, by superhuman exertions, I succeeded in passin’ de grand act of slavery emancipation. You behold in me de leadin’ actor in dat famous great an’ impressive drama. I’m an ole man now; but I have prospered in dis world, as de just always do, says de Psalmist, an’ I shall be glad to see any of you whenever you choose at my own residence, an’ to offer you in confidence a glass of de excellent staple produck of dis island—I allude to de wine of de country, de admirable beverage known as rum!’

There was another peal of foolish laughter from the crowd of negroes at this one ancient threadbare joke, and a faint titter from the sillier passengers on board the Severn. Edward looked over appealingly at the old buffoon; but the mulatto misunderstood his look of deprecation, and bowed once more profoundly, with immense importance, straight at him, like a sovereign acknowledging the plaudits of his subjects.

‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I shall be happy to see any of you—you, sah, or you—at my own estate, Whitaker Hall, in dis island, whenever you find it convenient to visit me. You have on board my son, Dr Whitaker, de future leader of de coloured party in de Council of Trinidad; an’ you have no doubt succeeded in makin’ his acquaintance in de course of your voyage from de shores of England. Dr Whitaker, of de University of Edinburgh, after pursuin’ his studies’——

The poor young man gave an audible groan, and turned away, in his poignant disgrace, to the very furthest end of the vessel. It was terrible enough to have all his hopes dashed and falsified in this awful fashion; but to be humiliated and shamed by name before the staring eyes of all his fellow-passengers, that last straw was more than his poor bursting heart could possibly endure. He walked away, broken and tottering, and leaned over the opposite side of the vessel, letting the hot tears trickle unreproved down his dusky cheeks into the ocean below.

At that very moment, before the man they called Bobby Whitaker could finish his sentence, a tall white man, of handsome and imposing presence, walked out quietly from among the knot of people behind the negroes, and laid his hand with a commanding air on the fat old mulatto’s broad shoulder. Bobby Whitaker turned round suddenly and listened with attention to something that the white man whispered gently but firmly at his astonished ear. Then his lower jaw dropped in surprise, and he fell behind, abashed for a second, into the confused background of laughing negroes. Partly from his childish recollections, but partly, too, by the aid of the photographs, Edward immediately recognised the tall white man. ‘Marian, Marian!’ he cried, waving his hand in welcome towards the new-comer, ‘it’s my father, my father!’

And even as he spoke, a pang of pain ran through him as he thought of the difference between the two first greetings. He couldn’t help feeling proud in his heart of hearts of the very look and bearing of his own father—tall, erect, with his handsome, clear-cut face and full white beard, the exact type of a self-respecting and respected English gentleman; and yet, the mere reflex of his own pride and satisfaction revealed to him at once the bitter poignancy of Dr Whitaker’s unspeakable disappointment. As the two men stood there on the wharf side by side, in quiet conversation, James Hawthorn with his grave, severe, earnest expression, and Bobby Whitaker with his greasy, vulgar, negro joviality speaking out from every crease in his fat chin and every sparkle of his small pig’s eyes, the contrast between them was so vast and so apparent, that it seemed to make the old mulatto’s natural vulgarity and coarseness of fibre more obvious and more unmistakable than ever to all beholders.

In a minute more, a gangway was hastily lowered from the wharf on to the deck; and the first man that came down it, pushed in front of a great crowd of eager, grinning, and elbowing negroes—mostly in search of small jobs among the passengers—was Bobby Whitaker. The moment he reached the deck, he seemed to take possession of it and of all the passengers by pure instinct, as if he were father to the whole shipload of them. The captain, the crew, and the other authorities were effaced instantly. Bobby Whitaker, with easy, greasy geniality, stood bowing and waving his hand on every side, in an access of universal graciousness towards the entire company. ‘My son!’ he said, looking round him inquiringly—‘my son, Dr Whitaker, of de Edinburgh University—where is he?—where is he? My dear boy! Let him come forward and embrace his fader!’

Dr Whitaker, in spite of his humiliation, had all a mulatto’s impulsive affectionateness. Ashamed and abashed as he was, he yet rushed forward with unaffected emotion to take his father’s outstretched hand. But old Bobby had no idea of getting over this important meeting in such a simple and undemonstrative manner; for him, it was a magnificent opportunity for theatrical display, on no account to be thrown away before the faces of so many distinguished European strangers. Holding his son for a second at arm’s length, in the centre of a little circle that quickly gathered around the oddly matched pair, he surveyed the young doctor with a piercing glance from head to foot, sticking his neck a little on one side with critical severity, and then, bursting into a broad grin of oily delight, he exclaimed, in a loud, stagey soliloquy: ‘My son, my son, my own dear son, Wilberforce Clarkson Whitaker! De inheritor of de tree names most intimately bound up wit de great revolution I have had de pride and de honour of effectin’ for unborn millions of my African bredderin’. My son, my son! We receive you wit transport! Welcome to Trinidad—welcome to Trinidad!’