Captain Henry Prince Character Analysis

Ben yawned, stretched, and led the way through the shop to where huge coils of rope were stashed. He leaned against a barrel. “Nat Bowditch, eh? I’ve heard of you. Master Watson’s brightest student you were.” He shook his head dolefully. “And now you’re becalmed. Just like I was at your age. Wouldn’t think to look at me I was bright as a dollar once, would you? But I was. Wanted to make something of myself. But I didn’t have a chance. Taken out of school, I was. Just like you. When I look at you, I can see myself as I was thirty—forty years agon. Becalmed I was. Just like you.”

Behind Nat a deep voice rumbled, “Avast there, Ben Meeker! Stow that gab about being becalmed! […] Only a weakling gives up when he’s becalmed. A strong man sails by ash breeze!”

“When you’re off soundings, you’re on your own. I’ve given you suggestions for trading when you reach Bourbon. But when you get there, you may find my suggestions aren’t worth the paper they’re written on. You’ll use your own judgment. There are only two things I expressly forbid. You’ll never break a law in any port you enter. And you’ll never—never enter into slave trade.” He leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair. “I’d rather lose any ship I own than to have it become a slaver! There is no excuse I’d accept. Even if a slaver attacked you, overpowered you, and forced you to carry a cargo of slaves—even that would be no excuse! You’d go down fighting—but you wouldn’t turn a Derby ship into a slaver!”

Before Nat realized what he was doing, he clapped his hands […].

Why, [Nat] wondered, had he ever wanted to come to sea? Why did any man choose this life?

It was all right maybe for a man who became a captain—but what about men like Keeler and Jensen—who spent their lives before the fo’c’sle? Why would they live like this for salt beef, hardtack, and twelve dollars a month?

The sixth night, just before midnight, Nat went on deck for his watch. The storm had ended; the sky was glittered with stars.

Nat was silent for a moment. “Maybe, sir, it’s because I want to pay a debt I owe to the men who helped me; men like Sam Smith and Dr. Bentley and Dr. Prince and Nathan Read. Maybe that’s why. Or maybe it’s just because of the men. We have good men before the mast, Captain Prince. Every man of them could be a first mate—if he knew navigation.”

Captain Prince muttered something under his breath. “An odd business!” he said. “But I’ve never had less trouble with a crew. Carry on, Mr. Bowditch!”

[…] Someone tapped on the door, and Monsieur Bonnefoy entered, smiling. “I have a confession to make […]. I was eavesdropping through the skylight […]. Monsieur Bowditch—he has the magnificent spirit! It is worthy of the French Revolution! Liberty! Equality! Fraternity!”

Prince looked at the paper covered with Nat’s tiny figures. “All that—to find one error? And there are probably two hundred thousand figures in those tables. Maybe that’s why he didn’t check every figure, Mr. Bowditch.”

“But he should have! Mathematics is nothing if it isn’t accurate! Men’s lives depend on the accuracy of those tables! It’s—it’s—criminal to have a mistake in a book like this! Do you hear me! It’s criminal! Men’s lives depend on these figures!” Nat hadn’t realized how he was shouting until he stopped. In the heavy silence he heard the bong-bong of the ship’s bell.

Captain Prince said, “Eight bells. Your watch, Mr. Bowditch. Men’s lives depend on that, too.”

From Salem, eh? Three cheers! You’re the first Salem ship ever to enter Manila Harbor. How was it around the Horn?”

Prince said, “We came by the Cape and Sunda Strait. The Cape’s not so bad—but I can’t recommend Sunda Strait. We’ve spent ten days getting through it—from the eight to the seventeenth of September.”

“You came from Sunda Strait since the seventeenth? In fifteen days?” Riddle asked. “Man alive, that’s navigation!”

Captain Prince shrugged. “Not when you’re sure of your longitude. Just a simple matter of mathematics. You…” He stopped, and glared at Nat.

Now the meaning of the strange sailing time dawned on the crew. Nat looked at Mr. Cheevers and saw anger, amusement, and respect in his eyes. But the faces of the men before the mast were frightening to watch. Not two of the lot, Nat figured, had had the slightest intention of sailing on the Astrea. They had doubtless heard of the clever desertion of the other crew. They’d planned the same stunt, signed on for a square meal and a month’s pay. Now they faced months at sea—the terrors of the Cape—the grilling passage through the Sunda Strait—a layover in Batavia—where men died like flies.

Their baffled rage was naked on their faces.

Ben yawned, stretched, and led the way through the shop to where huge coils of rope were stashed. He leaned against a barrel. “Nat Bowditch, eh? I’ve heard of you. Master Watson’s brightest student you were.” He shook his head dolefully. “And now you’re becalmed. Just like I was at your age. Wouldn’t think to look at me I was bright as a dollar once, would you? But I was. Wanted to make something of myself. But I didn’t have a chance. Taken out of school, I was. Just like you. When I look at you, I can see myself as I was thirty—forty years agon. Becalmed I was. Just like you.”

Behind Nat a deep voice rumbled, “Avast there, Ben Meeker! Stow that gab about being becalmed! […] Only a weakling gives up when he’s becalmed. A strong man sails by ash breeze!”

“When you’re off soundings, you’re on your own. I’ve given you suggestions for trading when you reach Bourbon. But when you get there, you may find my suggestions aren’t worth the paper they’re written on. You’ll use your own judgment. There are only two things I expressly forbid. You’ll never break a law in any port you enter. And you’ll never—never enter into slave trade.” He leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair. “I’d rather lose any ship I own than to have it become a slaver! There is no excuse I’d accept. Even if a slaver attacked you, overpowered you, and forced you to carry a cargo of slaves—even that would be no excuse! You’d go down fighting—but you wouldn’t turn a Derby ship into a slaver!”

Before Nat realized what he was doing, he clapped his hands […].

Why, [Nat] wondered, had he ever wanted to come to sea? Why did any man choose this life?

It was all right maybe for a man who became a captain—but what about men like Keeler and Jensen—who spent their lives before the fo’c’sle? Why would they live like this for salt beef, hardtack, and twelve dollars a month?

The sixth night, just before midnight, Nat went on deck for his watch. The storm had ended; the sky was glittered with stars.

Nat was silent for a moment. “Maybe, sir, it’s because I want to pay a debt I owe to the men who helped me; men like Sam Smith and Dr. Bentley and Dr. Prince and Nathan Read. Maybe that’s why. Or maybe it’s just because of the men. We have good men before the mast, Captain Prince. Every man of them could be a first mate—if he knew navigation.”

Captain Prince muttered something under his breath. “An odd business!” he said. “But I’ve never had less trouble with a crew. Carry on, Mr. Bowditch!”

[…] Someone tapped on the door, and Monsieur Bonnefoy entered, smiling. “I have a confession to make […]. I was eavesdropping through the skylight […]. Monsieur Bowditch—he has the magnificent spirit! It is worthy of the French Revolution! Liberty! Equality! Fraternity!”

Prince looked at the paper covered with Nat’s tiny figures. “All that—to find one error? And there are probably two hundred thousand figures in those tables. Maybe that’s why he didn’t check every figure, Mr. Bowditch.”

“But he should have! Mathematics is nothing if it isn’t accurate! Men’s lives depend on the accuracy of those tables! It’s—it’s—criminal to have a mistake in a book like this! Do you hear me! It’s criminal! Men’s lives depend on these figures!” Nat hadn’t realized how he was shouting until he stopped. In the heavy silence he heard the bong-bong of the ship’s bell.

Captain Prince said, “Eight bells. Your watch, Mr. Bowditch. Men’s lives depend on that, too.”

From Salem, eh? Three cheers! You’re the first Salem ship ever to enter Manila Harbor. How was it around the Horn?”

Prince said, “We came by the Cape and Sunda Strait. The Cape’s not so bad—but I can’t recommend Sunda Strait. We’ve spent ten days getting through it—from the eight to the seventeenth of September.”

“You came from Sunda Strait since the seventeenth? In fifteen days?” Riddle asked. “Man alive, that’s navigation!”

Captain Prince shrugged. “Not when you’re sure of your longitude. Just a simple matter of mathematics. You…” He stopped, and glared at Nat.

Now the meaning of the strange sailing time dawned on the crew. Nat looked at Mr. Cheevers and saw anger, amusement, and respect in his eyes. But the faces of the men before the mast were frightening to watch. Not two of the lot, Nat figured, had had the slightest intention of sailing on the Astrea. They had doubtless heard of the clever desertion of the other crew. They’d planned the same stunt, signed on for a square meal and a month’s pay. Now they faced months at sea—the terrors of the Cape—the grilling passage through the Sunda Strait—a layover in Batavia—where men died like flies.

Their baffled rage was naked on their faces.