When the hands were turned up at five bells (for everything was very regular on board), José brought me a glass to look at myself, and I was quite satisfied that my colour would no longer annoy the captain. I was not as black as a negro, but I was as dark as a mulatto.
I asked the Spanish negro, through José, who could speak both languages, whether I might wash myself? He replied, all day long if I pleased; that I should not get the colour off; it would wear off in time, and the stuff must be applied once a month, and that would be sufficient.
I went to the forecastle, and washed myself; the negro crew were much amused, and said that I now was a “bel muchaco”—a handsome boy. I dare say they thought so—at all events, they appeared to be very friendly with me, and my staining myself gave them great satisfaction. I was sitting with José between decks when the cabin bell rang.
“You go,” said he, showing his white teeth as he grinned; “I go after, see what captain tink.”
I went into the cabin, and knocked at the state-room door.
“Come in,” said the captain.
I went in, and met him face to face.
“What!” said he, looking earnestly at me—“yet it must be—it is you, is it not?”
“Yes, sir,” replied I, “it is me. I’ve turned dark to please you, and I hope it does please you.”
“It does, boy, I can look at you now, and forget that you are white. I can. I feel that I can love you now—you’ve got rid of your only fault in my eyes, and I’m not sorry. I’m only glad that I did not—”