Mad Barbara by Warwick Deeping

A ship's boat came up the river with half a dozen brown fellows tugging at the oars, their dark skins and the patched picturesqueness of their gaudy-colored shirts giving them something of the air of a boat-load of buccaneers with gayly kerchiefed heads, ringed ears, and belts full of pistols. A man in a soiled red coat, with remnants of lace hanging to the cuffs, sat in the stern-sheets, his sword across his knees, and beside him on the gunwale squatted a boy whose cheeky sparrow's face stared out from a tangle of crisp fair hair.

The man in the red coat looked even more brown and picturesque than the seamen at the oars. He wore no wig under his battered beaver, and his own black hair looked as though it had not been barbered for six months. His shoes had lost their buckles, and the stocking of his right leg showed a hole the size of a guinea above the heel.