A sky-blue cloth coat, whitened by long wear, with metal buttons, once bright, now changed to the hue of bronze; small-clothes of buff kerseymere glistening with grease; long stockings, and tarnished top-boots, made up the costume of this unique individual. A large blue cotton umbrella rested across his knees, as both hands were occupied in steering the skiff.
The portrait here given—or, perhaps, it should be styled profile—is that of Jacob Jessuron, the slave-merchant; an Israelite of Germanic breed, but one in whom—it would not have been truth to say—there was “no guile.”
The two oarsmen were simply his slaves.
The little craft had put out from the shore—from a secluded spot at a distance from the town, but still within view of it. It was evidently making for the newly-anchored barque; and evidently rowed at its best speed. Indeed, the steersman appeared to be urging his blacks to the exertion of their utmost strength. From time to time he was seen to twist his body half round and look towards the town—as though he expected or dreaded to see a rival boat coming from that quarter, and was desirous to reach the barque ahead of her.
If such was his design it proved successful. Although his little skiff was a considerable time in traversing the distance from shore to ship—a distance of at least a mile—he arrived at the point of his destination without any other boat making its appearance.
“Sheep ahoy!” shouted he, as the skiff was pulled up under the larboard quarter of the barque.
“Ay, ay!” responded a voice from above. “Ish that Captain Showler I hearsh?”
“Hilloo! who’s there?” interrogated some one on the quarter-deck; and the moment after, the sallow face of Captain Aminadab Jowler presented itself at the gangway.
“Ah! Mister Jessuron, that you, eh? Determined to have fust peep at my blackeys? Well! fust kim, fust served; that’s my rule. Glad to see you, old fellow. How’d deo?”
“Fusht-rate!—fusht-rate! I hopsh you’re the same yourshelf, Captain Showler. How ish you for cargo?”