The Story of Paul Jones. Alfred Henry Lewis
to sell up my ships to the last ship’s gig of ‘em, the better to leave me hand-free and head-free to serve the King.”
Young Jack Paul is polite enough to arch his brows and draw a serious face. Shipowner Younger is pleased at this, and, with a deprecatory wave of his hand, as one who dismisses discussion of misfortunes which are beyond the help of words, proceeds:
“But enou’ of idle clavers; I’ll e’en get to what for I brought you here.” Shipowner Younger leans far back in his big chair, and contemplates young Jack Paul with a twinkle. “Now, lad,” he begins, “when from ‘prentice ye are come to be first mate among my ships, I’m to tell ye that from Dick Bennison who signed ye, to Ed’ard Denbigh whose first officer ye now be, all the captains ye’ve sailed wi’ declare ye a finished seaman. But”—here Shipowner Younger shakes his head as though administering reproof—“they add that ye be ower handy wi’ your fists.”
“Why, then,” breaks in young Jack Paul, “how else am I to keep my watch in order! Besides, I hold it more humane to strike with your fist than with a belaying pin. The captains, I’ll warrant, have told you I thrashed none but ship’s bullies.”
“They’ll have told me nothing of the kind,” returns Shipowner Younger. “They said naught of bullies. What they did observe was that ye just pounded the faces of the fo’c’sle hands in the strict line of duty. Why, they said the whole ship’s crew loved ye like collie dogs! It seems ye’ve a knack of thrashing yourself into their hearts.”
Young Jack Paul’s eyes show pleasure and relief; he perceives he is not being scolded.
“And now,” says Shipowner Younger, donning the alert manner of your true-born merchant approaching pounds, shillings and pence—“and now, having put the compliments and the lecture astern, we’ll even get doon to business. As I was tellin’, I’m about to retire from the ships. I’m rich enou’; and, being called to gi’ counsel to the King, I want no exter-aneous interests to distract me. The fair truth is, I’ve sold all but the bark ye’re now wi’, the John O’ Gaunt, ye’ll ken; and that’s to be sold to-day.”
“You’ll sell our John O’ Gaunt, sir? Who is to own it?”
“Ed’ard Denbigh, your captain, is to own five-sixths of her, for which he’ll pay five thousand pounds; being dog-cheap”—here a deep sigh—“as I’m a Christian! As for the remaining sixth, lad, why it’s to be yours. Ye’ll sail oot o’ Whitehaven this v’yage in your own ship, partners wi’ Ed’ard Denbigh.”
“But, sir,” protests young Jack Paul, his voice startled into a tremor, “with all thanks for your goodness, I’ve got no thousand pounds. You know the wages of a mate.‘’
“Ay! I ken the wages of a mate weel enou’; I’ve been payin’ ‘em for thirty year come New Year’s day. But ye’ll no need money, Jack!”—the dry, harsh tones grow soft with kindliness—“ye’ll no need money, mon, and there’s the joke of it. For I’m to gi’ ye your one-sixth of the John O’ Gaunt, wi’ never a shillin’ from your fingers, and so make a man and a merchant of ye at a crack. Now, no words, lad! Ye’ve been faithful; and I’ve no’ forgot that off Cape Clear one day ye saved me a ship. Ay! ye’ll ken by now that Jamie Younger, for all he’s ‘lected to Parleyment to tell the King his mind, is no so giddy wi’ his honors as to forget folk who serve him. No words, I tell ye! There ye be, sailor and shipowner baith, before ye’re twenty-one. An’ gude go wi’ ye!”
The big-hearted Scotchman smothers the gratitude on the lips of young Jack Paul, and hands him out the door. As the latter goes down the stair, Shipowner Younger calls after him with a kind of anticipatory crow of exultation:
“And, lad! if ye get ever to Lunnon, come doon to Westminster, and see me just passin’ the laws!”
The John O’ Gaunt lies off the Guinea coast. The last one of its moaning, groaning, black cargo of slaves has come over the side from the shore boats, and been conveyed below. The John O’ Gaunt has been chartered by a Bristol firm to carry three thousand slaves from the Guineas to Kingston; it will require ten voyages, and this is the beginning of the first.
The three hundred unhappy blacks who make the cargo are between decks. There they squat in four ranks, held by light wrist-chains to two great iron cables which are stretched forward and aft.
There are four squatting ranks of them; each rank sits face to face with its fellow rank across the detaining cable. Thus will they sit and suffer, cramped and choked and half-starved in that tropical hell between decks, through those two-score days and nights which lie between the John O’ Gaunt and Kingston.
Captain Denbigh keeps the deck until the anchors are up. The wind is forward of the beam, and now, when its canvas is shaken out, the John O’ Gaunt begins to move through the water on the starboard tack. The motion is slow and sulky, as though the ship were sick in its heart at the vile traffic it has come to, and must be goaded by stiffest gales before it consents to any show of speed. Captain Denbigh leaves the order, “West by north!” with second mate Boggs, who has the watch on deck; and, after glancing aloft at the sails and over the rail at the weather, waddles below to drink “Prosperous voyage!” with his first mate and fellow owner, young Jack Paul.
He finds that youthful mariner gloomy and sad.
The cabin where the two are berthed is roomy. At one end is a case of bottles—brandy and rum, the property of Captain Denbigh. At the other is a second lock-fast case, filled with books, the sailing companions of first mate Jack Paul. There are text-books—French, Spanish, Latin and Greek; for first mate Jack Paul is of a mind to learn languages during his watch below. There are books on navigation and astronomy, as well as volumes by De Foe and Richardson. Also, one sees the comedies of Congreve, and the poems of Alexander Pope. To these latter, first mate Jack Paul gives much attention; his inquiring nose is often between their covers. He studies English elegancies of speech and manner in Congreve, Pope and Richardson, while the crop-eared De Foe feeds his fancy for adventure.
As Captain Denbigh rolls into the cabin, first mate Jack Paul is not thinking on books. He has upon his mind the poor black wretches between decks, the muffled murmur of whose groans, together with the clanking of their wrist-chains, penetrates the bulkhead which forms the forward cabin wall. Captain Denbigh never heeds the silence and the sadness of his junior officer and partner, but marches, feet spread wide and sailorwise, to the locker which holds his bottles. Making careful selection, he brings out one of rum and another of sherry.
“You not likin’ rum,” explains Captain Denbigh, as he sets the sherry within reach of first mate Jack Paul.
First mate Jack Paul mechanically fills himself a moderate glass, while Captain Denbigh does himself more generous credit with a brimmer from the rum bottle.
“Here’s to the good ship John O’ Gaunt,” cries Captain Denbigh, tossing the rum down his capacious throat. “May it live to carry niggers a hundred years!”
There is no response to this sentiment; but Captain Denbigh doesn’t feel at all slighted, and sits down comfortably to the floor-fast table, the rum at his elbow. Being thus disposed, he glances at his moody companion.
There is much that is handsome in a rough, saltwater way about Captain Denbigh. He is short, stout, with a brown pillar of a throat, and shoulders as square as his yardarms. His thick hair is clubbed into a cue; there are gold rings in his ears, and his gray eyes laugh as he looks at you.
“An’ now, mate Jack,” says Captain Denbigh, cheerfully, “with our three hundred niggers stowed snug, an’ we out’ard bound for Jamaica, let you an’ me have a bit of talk. Not as cap ‘in an’ mate, mind you, but as owners. To begin with, then, you don’t like the black trade?”
First mate Jack Paul looks up; the brown eyes show trouble and resolve.
“Captain,” he says, “it goes against my soul!” Then, he continues apologetically: “Not that I say aught against slavery,