Dr. Bentley 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!”

Back in his own room, Nat stared at the Latin books. Could he do it? Well, he could try! One thing, he thought, if he ever got a chance to go to Harvard, he’d need to know Latin. Just now a chance to go to Harvard seemed farther away than ever. But, he told himself, you never could tell what might happen. If the chance came, he’d be ready.

By the next summer, he had learned enough Latin to begin to translate the Principia. It seemed to him that he lived in two worlds now. One was the world of the chandlery, where he kept books and sold marlinespikes, belaying pins, and hemp rope. The other was the world of the universe, where he translated Newton’s Principia—a word at a time, until he had read another sentence. Sometimes he spent a whole evening working on two or three sentences.

Dr. Bentley shook his head. “No, Nat. We can’t have freedom—unless we have freedom.”

Nat stiffened. “Does that mean the right to tell lies?”

Dr. Bentley smiled. “It means the right to have our own opinions. Human problems aren’t like mathematics, Nat. Every problem doesn’t have just one answer; sometimes you get several answers—and you don’t know which is the right one.”

Nat felt his face get hot. “But people don’t have the right to talk against the president, do they? That’s going too far!”

“Years ago,” De. Bentley said, “before we won our independence, the Essex Almanac published something about freedom of the press. It was true then; it’s just as true now [and …] went something like this: […] If we argue against any branch of liberty, just because sometimes people abuse that liberty, then we argue against liberty itself. In a free country, the press must be free.”

“I wonder,” Nat said, “why they call it a venture?”

Gibaut was still chuckling. “Because it is a venture—a risk. Any cargo is a risk. When we get to Bourbon, we may find people begging for our cargo and we may sell everything for three times what we paid for it. Or maybe when we get there, they won’t want anything we have. Maybe we’ll find there have been eight or ten ships there just ahead of us. Then we’ll lose our shirts. We never know.”

“I wouldn’t want to lose my whole hundred and thirty-five dollars. I wonder if there’s anything I could be sure I’d sell?”

“You can’t be sure of anything,” Gibaut said. “But ask Monsieur Bonnefoy about it. He ought to know. He comes from Bourbon. Fact is, he’s going home on the Henry.”

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!”

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!”

Back in his own room, Nat stared at the Latin books. Could he do it? Well, he could try! One thing, he thought, if he ever got a chance to go to Harvard, he’d need to know Latin. Just now a chance to go to Harvard seemed farther away than ever. But, he told himself, you never could tell what might happen. If the chance came, he’d be ready.

By the next summer, he had learned enough Latin to begin to translate the Principia. It seemed to him that he lived in two worlds now. One was the world of the chandlery, where he kept books and sold marlinespikes, belaying pins, and hemp rope. The other was the world of the universe, where he translated Newton’s Principia—a word at a time, until he had read another sentence. Sometimes he spent a whole evening working on two or three sentences.

Dr. Bentley shook his head. “No, Nat. We can’t have freedom—unless we have freedom.”

Nat stiffened. “Does that mean the right to tell lies?”

Dr. Bentley smiled. “It means the right to have our own opinions. Human problems aren’t like mathematics, Nat. Every problem doesn’t have just one answer; sometimes you get several answers—and you don’t know which is the right one.”

Nat felt his face get hot. “But people don’t have the right to talk against the president, do they? That’s going too far!”

“Years ago,” De. Bentley said, “before we won our independence, the Essex Almanac published something about freedom of the press. It was true then; it’s just as true now [and …] went something like this: […] If we argue against any branch of liberty, just because sometimes people abuse that liberty, then we argue against liberty itself. In a free country, the press must be free.”

“I wonder,” Nat said, “why they call it a venture?”

Gibaut was still chuckling. “Because it is a venture—a risk. Any cargo is a risk. When we get to Bourbon, we may find people begging for our cargo and we may sell everything for three times what we paid for it. Or maybe when we get there, they won’t want anything we have. Maybe we’ll find there have been eight or ten ships there just ahead of us. Then we’ll lose our shirts. We never know.”

“I wouldn’t want to lose my whole hundred and thirty-five dollars. I wonder if there’s anything I could be sure I’d sell?”

“You can’t be sure of anything,” Gibaut said. “But ask Monsieur Bonnefoy about it. He ought to know. He comes from Bourbon. Fact is, he’s going home on the Henry.”

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!”