Many years ago, as the last lingering sunbeams were fading from the sky, giving place to the mellow twilight; and a ruddy tinge was on the bosom of the waters, where the little river of St. Mary’s mingled its tributary stream with the waves of the broad Potomac; a small vessel had just anchored within the mouth of the former river, on which is established a port of entry. The craft seemed awaiting the boarding officer, who, at a point further up the river, was just entering his boat. He appeared very young, and, from the open gaiety of his fine countenance, seemed to enjoy corresponding lightness of heart. He raised a small telescope to his eye, and exclaimed to the two colored men who were loosening the boat—
“It must be a Yankee schooner; be quick Basil! Luke!”
“Aye, aye, Massa Frank,” replied Luke, “all ready—that’s an eastern craft, sure.”
The light barge was soon on the waves, and the youth took the helm, while the strong arm of his companions were engaged with the oars.
The visitors approached the vessel’s side almost unperceived; and when the young officer ascended to its deck, he found the captain anxiously absorbed in examining an old map, which was spread out before him. The expression of his weather-beaten face, as he raised it to return the salutation of his visitor, showed evident signs of being puzzled.
“Where are you from?” inquired the landsman.
“From Plymouth.”
“What cargo?”
“Why, a good many notions, of which you will know presently.”
“And whither bound?”