The sun is struggling through the dust-coated, cobwebbed windows, and lighting dimly yet sufficiently the dingy office of Shipowner Younger of Whitehaven. That substantial man is sitting at his desk, eyes fixed upon the bristle of upstanding masts which sprout, thick as forest pines on a hillside, from the harbor basin below. The face of Shipowner Younger has been given the seasoning of several years, since he went to Arbigland that squall-torn afternoon, to pick up a crew for Dick Bennison. Also, Shipowner Younger shines with a new expression of high yet retiring complacency. The expression is one awful and fascinating to the clerk, who sits at the far end of the room. Shipowner Younger has been elected to Parliament, and his awful complacency is that elevation’s visible sign. The knowledge of his master’s election offers the basis of much of the clerk’s awe, and that stipendary almost charms himself into the delusion that he sees a halo about the bald pate of Shipowner Younger.

The latter brings the spellbound clerk from his trance of fascination, by wheeling upon him.

“Did ye send doon, mon,” he cries, “to my wharf, with word for young Jack Paul to come?”

The clerk says that he did.

“Then ye can go seek your denner.”

The clerk, acting on this permission, scrambles to his fascinated feet. As he retires through the one door, young Jack Paul enters. The brown-faced boy of the Arbigland yawl has grown to be a brisk young sailor, taut and natty. He shakes the hand of Shipowner Younger, who gives him two fingers in that manner of condescending reserve, which he conceives to be due his dignity as a member of the House of Commons. Having done so much for his dignity, Shipowner Younger relaxes.

“Have a chair, lad!” he says. “Bring her here where we can chat.”

The natty Jack Paul brings the clerk’s chair, as being the only one in the room other than that occupied by Shipowner Younger. One sees the thorough-paced sailor in the very motions of him; for his step is quick, catlike and sure, and there is just the specter of a roll in his walk, as though the heaving swell of the ocean still abides in his heels. When he has placed the chair, so as to bring himself and Shipowner Younger face to face, he says:

“And now, sir, what are your commands’?”

“I’ll have sent for ye, Jack,” begins Shipowner Younger, portentously lengthening the while his shaven upper-lip—“I’ll have sent for ye, for three several matters: To pay ye a compliment or twa; to gi’ ye a gude lecture; an’ lastly to do a trifle of business wi’ ye, by way of rounding off. For I hold,” goes on Shipowner Younger, in an admonishing tone, “that conversations which don’t carry a trifle of business are no mair than just the crackle of thorns under a pot. Ye’ll ken I’m rich, Jack—ye’ll ken I can clink my gold, an’ count my gold, an’ keep my gold wi’ the warmest mon in Whitehaven?”

Young Jack Paul smiles, and nods his full agreement.

“But ye’ll no ken,” goes on Shipowner Younger, with proud humility, the pride being real and the humility imitated—“ye’ll no ken, I believe, that I’m ‘lected to the Parleyment in Lunnon, lad?” Shipowner Younger pauses to observe the effect of this announcement of his greatness. Being satisfied, he goes on. “It’s a sacrifeece, no doot, but I s’all make it. The King has need of my counsel; an’, God save him! he s’all have it. For I’ve always said, lad, that a mon’s first debt is to the King. But it’ll mean sore changes, Jack, sore changes will it mean; for I’m 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, which I’ve heard chaplains and parsons prove to be right and pious by Bible text. Ay! I’ve heard them when I’ve been to church ashore, with my brother William by the Rappahannock. My kinsman Jones owns slaves; and I can see, too, that they have safer, happier lives with him than could fall to their lot had they remained savages in the wild Guinea woods. But owning slaves by the Rappahannock, where you can give them kindness and make them happy, is one thing. This carrying the tortured creatures —chained, and mad with grief!—to Jamaica is another.”

Captain Denbigh refreshes himself with more rum.

“It wards off the heat,” he vouchsafes, in extenuation of his partiality for the rum. Having set himself right touching rum, he takes, up the main question: “What can we do?” he asks. “You know we’re chartered for ten v’yages?”

“I’m no one to argue with my captain,” responds first mate Jack Paul. “Still less do I talk of breaking charters. All I say is, it makes me heart-sore.”

“Let me see!” responds Captain Denbigh, searching for an idea. “Your brother William tells me, the last time we takes in tobacco from the Jones plantation, that old William Jones is as fond o’ you as o’ him?”

“That is true. He wanted me to stay ashore with him and William, and give up the sea.”

“An’ why not, mate Jack?”

First mate Jack Paul shrugs his shoulders, which, despite his youth, are as broad and square as his captain’s.

“Because I like the sea,” says he; “and shall always like the sea.”

Captain Denbigh takes more rum; after which he sits knitting his forehead into knots, in a very agony of cogitation. Finally he gives the table a great bang, at which the rum bottle jumps in alarm.

“I’ve hit it!” he cries. “I knowed I would if I’d only drink rum enough. I never has a bright idea yet, I don’t get it from rum. Here, now, mate Jack; I’ll just buy you out. You don’t like the black trade, an’ you’ll like it less an’ less. It’s your readin’ books does it; that, an not drinkin rum. Howsumever, I’ll buy you out. Then you can take a merchant-ship; or—an’ you may call me no seaman if that ain’t what I’d do you sits down comfortable with your brother an’ your old kinsman Jones by the Rappahannock, an plays gentleman ashore.”

While Captain Denbigh talks, the trouble fades from the face of first mate Jack Paul.

“What’s that?” he cries. “You’ll buy me out?”

“Ay, lad! as sure as my name’s Ed’ard Denbigh. That is, if so be you can sell, bein’ under age. I allows you can, howsumever; for you’re no one to go back on a bargain.” Having thus adjusted to his liking the legal doubt suggested, Captain Denbigh turns to the question of price. “Master Younger puts your sixth at a thousand pounds. If so be you’ll say the word, mate Jack, I’ll give you a thousand pounds.”

Countenance brightened with a vast relief, first mate Jack Paul stretches his hand across the table. Captain Denbigh, shifting his glass to the left hand, grasps it.

“Done!” says first mate Jack Paul.

“An’ done to you, my hearty!” exclaims Captain Denbigh. “The money’ll be yours, mate Jack, as soon as ever we sees Kingston light. An’ now for another hooker of rum to bind the bargain.”