One night, as the captain and his family were at the supper-table, there came in a negro, very black, and of truly vast proportions, whom Captain Rhines addressed by the singular appellation of Flour. This nickname he obtained in this manner. He was a man of great strength, and a thorough seaman, but he often shipped as cook, because he had higher wages; and a most excellent cook he was: he was also perfectly honest, and, like most very powerful men, of an excellent disposition; but he would get drunk whenever the opportunity offered, insomuch that they often put him in jail, and locked him up till the vessel was ready for sea. Sometimes he would stay ashore for a year or two, and then get tired and start off. He was always in demand, notwithstanding this failing,—the economical captains never hesitating to go one hand short when they had Flour (alias James Peterson) for cook, as he was always ready to lend a hand, and was worth three common men in bad weather.
Some roguish boys, one day when he had been drinking, got him into a store, and putting molasses on his wool, covered it with flour, putting a layer of flour and molasses till his head was as big as a half bushel. After this he went by the name of Flour, and answered to it as readily as to his own name, that dropping out of use entirely.
He was a slave, while slaves were held in New England, and had been many voyages with Captain Rhines, who used to hire him of Peterson, his master, to whom he was so much attached that he would never leave him, although he had every opportunity to run away when at sea; and not even the love of liquor could prevent him from bringing home a present for his master.
“Massa cap’n,” said the black, “dey tells me you’s gwine to sail the salt seas again. Massa, if you is goin’, this nigger would like to go wid you.”
“Well, we’ve been a good many cruises together. Wife, give Flour some supper, and then we’ll talk it over. I suppose,” said the captain, after supper, “you’ve got dry, and want some of that augerdent[A] the Spanish make. It’s fiery stuff, and will burn your coppers all up; you had better drink old West India. Wife, give him a glass of that Santa Cruz.”
[A] Aguardiente.
“But I ain’t going to give much of any wages; they are going to have a ‘privilege’—mates and all. I tell you, we are like old Noah; we’ve got cattle, and feathered fowl, beasts clean and unclean.”
“Massa, me have privilege, too.”
“What have you got to carry?”