When I first arrived on the Point there was, I may say, only one house
upon it, and that belonged to Messrs. Flint Brothers, of Liverpool. It
was occupied by one solitary man named Jackson; he had had an assistant,
but the assistant had died of fever, and I was sent to replace him.
Jackson was a man of fifty at least, who had been a sailor before he
had become an African trader. His face bore testimony to the winds
and weather it had encountered, and wore habitually a grave, if not
melancholy, expression. He was rough but kind to me, and though strict
was just, which was no common feature in an old African hand to one who
had just arrived on the coast.
He kept the factory--we called all houses on the coast factories--as
neat and clean as if it had been a ship. He had the floor of the portion
we dwelt in holystoned every week; and numberless little racks and
shelves were fitted up all over the house. The outside walls glittered
with paint, and the yard was swept clean every morning; and every
Sunday, at eight o'clock and sunset, the ensign was hoisted and lowered,
and an old cannon fired at the word of command.
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