_Sunday, July 30th_.--About 10 a.m. we were off Tarafal Bay--a most
hopeless-looking place for supplies. High rocky mountains, sandy
slopes, and black volcanic beach, composed a scene of arid desolation,
in the midst of which was situated one small white house, with four
windows and a thatched roof, surrounded by a little green patch of
sugar-canes and cocoa-nut palms.
But the result proved the sageness of the advice contained in the old
proverb, not to trust to appearances only; for, whilst we were at
breakfast, Mr. Martinez, the son of the owner of the one whitewashed
cottage to be seen, came on board. To our surprise, he spoke English
extremely well, and promised us all sorts of supplies, if we could
wait until three o'clock in the afternoon. Having agreed to do this,
we shortly afterwards went ashore in his boat, with a crew of more
than half-naked negroes, and a hot row of about three miles brought us
to the shore, where, after some little difficulty, we succeeded in
effecting a landing. Our feet immediately sank into the hot black
sand, composed entirely of volcanic deposits and small pieces, or
rather grains, of amber, through which we had a fatiguing walk until
we reached some palm-trees, shading a little pool of water. Here we
left some of the men, with instructions to fill the breakers they had
brought with them, while we walked on along the beach, past the
remains of an English schooner that caught fire not far from this
island, and was run ashore by her captain, thirty years ago.
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