The captain of the schooner had been engaged by parties in Charleston, who simply acted as agents for the owners.  He had been moved to return to Charleston by those feelings which are so inherent in our nature, inspiring a feeling for the place of its nativity, and recalling the early associations of childhood.  Each longing fancy pointed back again, and back he came, to further fortune on his native soil.  His crew, with the exception of Tommy, consisted of three good, active negroes, one of whom acted as pilot on the Edisto River.  Accustomed to the provisioning of Boston ships, he had paid no attention to his supplies; for, in fact, he only took charge of the little craft as an accommodation to the agents, and with the promise of a large vessel as soon as he returned; and sailing with a fine stiff breeze, he was far outside the light when the doctor announced dinner.  “What have you got that’s good, old chap?” said he to the cook.

“Fust stripe, Massa Cap’en.  A right good chance o’ homony and bacon fry,” returned the negro.

“Homony and what?  Nothing else but that?”

“Why, massa! gracious, dat what Massa Whaley give all he cap’en, an’ he tink ’em fust-rate,” said the negro.

As they were the only whites on board, the captain took little Tommy into the cabin with him to sit at the same table; but there was too much truth in the negro’s statement, and instead of sitting down to one of those nice dinners which are spread in Boston ships, both great and small, there, on a little piece of pine board, swung with a preventer, was a plate of black homony covered with a few pieces of fried pork, so rank and oily as to be really repulsive to a common stomach.  Beside it was an earthen mug, containing about a pint of molasses, which was bedaubed on the outside to show its quality.  The captain looked at it for a minute, and then taking up the iron spoon which stood in it, and letting one or two spoonfuls drop back, said, “Old daddie, where are all your stores?  Fetch them out here.”

“Gih, massa! here ’em is; ‘e’s jus’ as Massa Stoney give ’em,” said the negro, drawing forth a piece of rusty and tainted bacon, weighing about fifteen pounds, and, in spots, perfectly alive with motion; about a half-bushel of corn-grits; and a small keg of molasses, with a piece of leather attached to the bung.

“Is that all?” inquired the captain peremptorily.

“Yes, massa, he all w’at ’em got now, but git more at Massa Whaley plantation win ’em git da.”

“Throw it overboard, such stinking stuff; it’ll breed pestilence on board,” said the captain to the negro, (who stood holding the spoiled bacon in his hand, with the destructive macalia dropping on the floor,) at the same time applying his foot to the table, and making wreck of hog, homony, molasses, and plates.

“Gih-e-wh-ew!  Massa, I trow ’im o’board, Massa Whaley scratch ’em back, sartin.  He tink ’em fust-rate.  Plantation nigger on’y gits bacon twice week, Massa Cap’en,” said he, picking up the wreck and carrying it upon deck, where it was devoured with great gusto by the negroes, who fully appreciated the happy God-send.