Becoming America - An Exploration of American Literature from Precolonial to Post-Revolution, 2018a

BECOMING AMERICA
REVOLUTIONARY AND EARLY NATIONAL PERIOD LITERATURE
that when a mulatto has a regular European face, look out for him; he is a devil. But
see, your steward here has features more regular than King George’s of England;
and yet there he nods, and bows, and smiles; a king, indeed—the king of kind hearts
and polite fellows. What a pleasant voice he has, too?”
“He has, Señor.”
“But tell me, has he not, so far as you have known him, always proved a good,
worthy fellow?” said Captain Delano, pausing, while with a nal genuexion the
steward disappeared into the cabin; “come, for the reason just mentioned, I am
curious to know.”
“Francesco is a good man,” a sort of sluggishly responded Don Benito, like a
phlegmatic appreciator, who would neither nd fault nor atter.
“Ah, I thought so. For it were strange, indeed, and not very creditable to us
white-skins, if a little of our blood mixed with the African’s, should, far from
improving the latter’s quality, have the sad eect of pouring vitriolic acid into black
broth; improving the hue, perhaps, but not the wholesomeness.”
“Doubtless, doubtless, Señor, but”—glancing at Babo—”not to speak of negroes,
your planter’s remark I have heard applied to the Spanish and Indian intermixtures
in our provinces. But I know nothing about the matter,” he listlessly added.
And here they entered the cabin.
The lunch was a frugal one. Some of Captain Delano’s fresh sh and pumpkins,
biscuit and salt beef, the reserved bottle of cider, and the San Dominick’s last bottle
of Canary.
As they entered, Francesco, with two or three colored aids, was hovering over
the table giving the last adjustments. Upon perceiving their master they withdrew,
Francesco making a smiling congé, and the Spaniard, without condescending to
notice it, fastidiously remarking to his companion that he relished not superuous
attendance.
Without companions, host and guest sat down, like a childless married couple,
at opposite ends of the table, Don Benito waving Captain Delano to his place, and,
weak as he was, insisting upon that gentleman being seated before himself.
The negro placed a rug under Don Benito’s feet, and a cushion behind his back,
and then stood behind, not his master’s chair, but Captain Delano’s. At rst, this
a little surprised the latter. But it was soon evident that, in taking his position, the
black was still true to his master; since by facing him he could the more readily
anticipate his slightest want.
“This is an uncommonly intelligent fellow of yours, Don Benito,” whispered
Captain Delano across the table.
“You say true, Señor.”
During the repast, the guest again reverted to parts of Don Benito’s story,
begging further particulars here and there. He inquired how it was that the scurvy
and fever should have committed such wholesale havoc upon the whites, while
destroying less than half of the blacks. As if this question reproduced the whole
scene of plague before the Spaniard’s eyes, miserably reminding him of his solitude
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