The walls and ceiling are whitewashed, and contrast
prettily with the dark timbering of the roof. We would gladly have
staid to give thanks for our safe and prosperous voyage, but a black
rain-cloud warns us homeward,--not, however, until we have received a
kind invitation from one of the hospitable islanders to return the next
morning for a drive and breakfast.
Returning soon after sunrise to fulfil this promise, we encounter the
barracks, and are tempted to look in and see the sons of darkness
performing their evolutions. The morning drill is about half over. We
peep in,--the Colonel, a lean Don Quixote on a leaner Rosinante, dashes
up to us with a weak attempt at a canter; he courteously invites us to
come in and see all that is to be seen, and, lo! our friend the Major,
quite gallant in his sword and scarlet jacket, is detailed for our
service. The soldiers are black, and very black,--none of your dubious
American shades, ranging from clear salmon to _cafe au lait_ or even
to _cafe noir_. These are your good, satisfactory, African sables,
warranted not to change in the washing. Their Zouave costume is very
becoming, with the Oriental turban, caftan, and loose trousers; and the
Philosopher of our party remarks, that the African requires costume,
implying that the New Englander can stand alone, as can his clothes, in
their black rigidity.
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