Nat Bowditch Character Analysis

He told her about the shilling he had found, and the good-luck spell. “It’s the best good-luck spell in the world. But I’ll have to do it tonight, sure, while there’s still a new moon.”

“What if you can’t see the new moon through your window?”

Nat shook his head. “That’s bad luck. I’ll have to wait till Hab is asleep, and then get downstairs in the dark, without knocking over anything, and come out here in the yard.”

Lizza’s eyes got big. “By yourself? Won’t you be afraid?”

“Not very much,” Nat said. “Anyway, I got to do it. Our luck’s just got to change. I heard Granny talking to Mother. She’s worried. She said if things don’t go better now, she didn’t know what we’d do.” Lizza shivered. Nat added quickly, “They will go better, Lizza! Honest they will! Soon as I work my good-luck spell!”

“I’d invest in a privateer. I’d buy an expectation from a sailor.”

“How do you buy an expectation?”

“An expectation is the money a sailor expects to make on the voyage of a privateer. You see, when we capture a British ship, we sell it. The owner of the privateer gets part of the money. The rest goes to the captain and crew. If you want to buy an expectation, you talk to a sailor about it. He’ll take your money. Then he’ll give you a slip of paper that says you’ll get part of what he makes on the voyage.”

“And will that be more money than you gave him?”

“Lots more.”

“Why will the sailor sell his expectation, when he would have more money if he didn’t?”

Father chuckled. “Here comes a sailor now. You might ask him.”

The big man took off his flat black hat and fished a paper from the crown. “Just got one left. For ten per cent of my expectations. What’ll you give me for it?”

“All my money!” Nat laid his shilling in the big man’s hand.

The big man stared at the shilling. “Well, I’ll be a copper-bottomed, bevel-edged…Most money you ever had, eh?”

“Yes, sir!”

“And you come from a long line of sea captains? Who are you?”

“Nat Bowditch.”

“Captain Bowditch’s boy, eh? I remember when the Polly went aground. Same day the war started. April 19, 1775.”

“Granny said it ‘took the tuck’ out of Father.” Nat told the big man about his good-luck spell that he was going to work, only the nor’easter came, and hid the moon.

The big man rubbed his bristling chin. He looked at the shilling. “It’s a bargain, Mate. But keep it a secret!

Nat remembered last winter when Hab had outgrown his coat. “Did you get cold last winter, Hab?”

“Plenty cold.”

Nat was puzzled. “But when the boys yelled at you, you always said, ‘I’m not cold. Only sissies need winter coats.’”

“Of course.” Hab frowned. “Boys don’t blubber. If something hurts, you say it doesn’t.” He looked up at the tall masts of the Freedom and grinned. “She’s a grand ship, isn’t she?”

Nat’s stomach felt hollow. What would it be like with Hab gone? But boys didn’t blubber. He bit his lips to steady them and squared his shoulders.

She and Nat went out into the dark, moonless night, and walked down Turner’s Lane and out on the wharf. Mother helped Nat find the North Star, and told him how the Big Dipper swung around it, and how to tell time by the Dipper. Then she was silent, standing with her hand on Nat’s shoulder, looking up at the stars.

Boys don’t blubber. He must remember that. Finally, Nat said, “It’s all right about school, Mother. When times are better, I’ll get to go back.”

Mother did not answer. She was still gazing up at the sky. After a while she said, “I made up a sort of saying for myself, Nat. I will lift up my eyes unto the stars. Sometimes, if you look at the stars long enough, it helps. It shrinks your day-by-day troubles back down to size.” She smiled.

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.

There was another world, too—the world of Salem. Every time Nat went on an errand he realized how Salem was growing. The men of Salem were proud of their town. Their “city,” they called it now. Here it was—only 1790—not even ten years since we’d won our independence—and Salem had doubled in size! Eight thousand people now! The people bragged of the growth of Salem, and of the daring of her sailors. Elias Hasket Derby’s ships were going farther and farther from their home port. As Nat shouldered his way through the crowded wharves he heard talk of Russia and France and Spain, of Bombay and Calcutta.

Elizabeth studied Nat gravely. “Funny to think you were young once, isn’t it? I suppose you seem older because of your brains. People say figures just run out of your ears. But I don’t see any.” Then, in a swift change of mood, she said, “Mary will be awfully happy here, won’t she? I mean—she knows how to be happy. Being happy takes a lot of practice, don’t you think?”

Lizza said, “Go tell David that, Elizabeth. He’ll love it.”

When Elizabeth had gone, Nat whistled softly. “How do you keep up with her?”

Lizza smiled. “She’s a dear child. But she does say the oddest things. Sometimes I think she must have been born knowing them. I tell her she has eyes in the back of her heart.”

Nat smiled. “And she says odd things? I think you’re quite a pair.”

“Do you suppose Father has them already?”

[…] “Of course! […].” Then he apologized quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bark at you.”

“I know. I’m just like a chair you stumble over in the dark,” Elizabeth said. “It isn’t the chair’s fault, but you kick it anyhow.”

Nat blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“Your brain. It’s too fast. So you stumble on other people’s dumbness. And—you want to kick something.”

Nat felt his face get hot. “But I shouldn’t.”

Elizabeth agreed. “No, you shouldn’t, because even if people are dumb, they aren’t chairs, are they? They do have feelings.”

“Lizza was right,” Nat said, “You do have eyes in the back of your heart. Come on over here and I'll show you how your father uses parallel rulers.” He smiled. “And you may ask all the questions you want to, and I promise not to bark.”

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.”

“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.”

“I—I’m dumb. About book learning, I mean. Do you think you could teach me anything without—bawling me out?”

“Yes. But I couldn’t teach you much as long as you bawled yourself out.”

“Huh…sir?”

“I mean—suppose you made a little mistake—or didn’t understand something right away. If you wasted my time cursing and yelling ‘I can’t get that! What’s the use?’ then I couldn’t teach you.”

“But—but—” For a long time Lem was silent. Then he chuckled. “Mr. Bowditch, sir, heaven help you, but you’ve got yourself a job.”

They shook hands on it.

Now, when Nat taught the rest of the crew, Lem stood listening […]. At first it was slow work. In spite of everything, Lem’s anger would blaze at himself and he would storm and rage. […But finally] Lem settled down, and he learned so fast that he surprised even Nat.

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.

Zack Selby sneered. “You’d think he was running a whole fleet of ships, single-handed, to hear her take on.”

Sour grapes, Nat thought. Zack’s still before the mast, and he’s ten years older than Lem. He said, “I’m glad for Lem, Amanda, but I didn’t do it for him. He did it for himself. He worked and studied harder than any man in the crew.”

“That’s just it, sir!” Amanda said. “Nobody else ever got him to stick his nose in a book!”

Zack sneered again. “Books! Salem men have come to a pretty pass when they have to sail by books! Time was they could double the Horn with nothing but log, lead, and lookout.”

“That’s right, Nat agreed. “They doubled the Horn. And sometimes they got home again. But what about all the ships that don’t come home? If ‘sailing by book’ makes men a little safer, what’s wrong with it?”

“Good for you, Charlie,” Nat said, “you have that French accent, all right. You won’t miss them if they come prowling around, will you?”

Charlie smiled, and bent his head to wipe his wrist over one cheek. In the moonlight, Nat could see the youngster’s tearstained face. Poor tad, he was homesick.

“Charlie, I wonder if you could do something for me?”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“I’m working on a problem in navigation. I’d like to explain it to you. If I can make you understand, I’ll know I’ve got it.”

“Aye, aye, sir! Anything to help!”

They walked the deck while Nat explained. Charlie was quick. He got the explanation much faster than grown men generally did.

“Thank you, Charlie. That’s helped.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bowditch, sir. You don’t know, but you’ve helped me, too!”

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.

“It seems Moore had figured 1800 was a Leap Year. So he had the calculations for the moon off. Seems like an awful little mistake in a book makes a big mistake in miles. That’s what I heard the mate say when we was trying to get off the reef. I don’t understand much about it. Don’t want to, I guess. You see, Mr. Bowditch, if he hadn’t been depending on the book, he’d have been sounding. Log, lead, and lookout. That’s the way to sail […;] we tried to run the boats in [… but] couldn’t see the rocks. When I come aground, I was the only one there.”

Nat said, “You’d have been safer heading straight out from shore.”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed. “I guess that ought to be in a book, too.” Then he flushed. “I didn’t mean it like it sounded […]. But—but—a book ain’t no good.”

Polly stopped smiling. “Aunt Mary, think of it this way; if a ship was aground off Salem Harbor—say on Rising States Ledge—or the Haste—every able-bodied man in Salem would be out there trying to save the crew, wouldn’t he?”

“Of course!”

“And the women wouldn’t try to stop them, would they? No matter how long and hard they worked? No matter if they were risking their lives?”

“No-o-o-o,” Mrs. Boardman admitted, “when a ship is in danger, men do everything they can.”

“Well, every ship is in danger, every time it sails,” Polly said. “But the more men know about navigation, the safer our ships will be, won’t they? Nat isn’t working to save just one ship. He’s working to make every ship safer every time it goes to sea. Every ship in America!” Polly was really warming to her idea. “Every ship in the world!”

“He speaks for a lot of men, Polly. I’m not saying that there are many as mean-spirited as he is—thank heaven. But there are hundreds—thousands—who don’t believe in ‘book sailing.’ You know, seafaring is a lot like medicine. On the one hand—superstition and old wives’ tales; on the other hand—the scientist, trying to solve puzzles and find the answers. And all through the ages men have believed the superstitions and doubted the scientist. Natural, I suppose. You believe what you grow up believing. It’s hard to change.”

“You can’t remember, Polly, when we first started inoculating for smallpox.” He shook his head. “Wonder to me I wasn’t lynched. Inoculation was risky—but not as bad as the epidemics of the smallpox. Then vaccination came along. It was safer, but people raised almost as much fuss.”

Lem growled. “When did you last shoot the sun?”

“About three days ago.”

Lem gulped. “Three days? Seventy-two hours? And since then?”

“It’s simple mathematics, Lem. At such a speed, in so many hours, you log so many miles in a given direction. It’s—”

“Yeah,” Lem growled. “Seventy-two hours through the Roaring Forties. Seventy-two hours by dead reckoning, and then you enter Salem Harbor. Why, you…[…]” He slumped in a chair and stared at Nat.

Nat winked at Polly. “Have you any idea what’s the matter with him?”

Polly’s eyes danced. “He just doesn’t understand about you and mathematics, dear. Two plus two is four. It comes out right, doesn’t it?”

[Polly] looked at Nat with glowing eyes. “It’s really you! Captain Bowditch, F.A.A. and A.M., I’m very proud of you!” She blinked back sudden tears. “Oh, Nat, it’s been so long!”

Nat’s arm tightened around her. Somewhere out of the past a voice whispered, “A long time to sail by ash breeze.”

“Was it awfully hard?” Polly asked.

“Not too bad, Nat told her. “Rough weather sometimes. But I’ll say this for it—I was never becalmed!”

He told her about the shilling he had found, and the good-luck spell. “It’s the best good-luck spell in the world. But I’ll have to do it tonight, sure, while there’s still a new moon.”

“What if you can’t see the new moon through your window?”

Nat shook his head. “That’s bad luck. I’ll have to wait till Hab is asleep, and then get downstairs in the dark, without knocking over anything, and come out here in the yard.”

Lizza’s eyes got big. “By yourself? Won’t you be afraid?”

“Not very much,” Nat said. “Anyway, I got to do it. Our luck’s just got to change. I heard Granny talking to Mother. She’s worried. She said if things don’t go better now, she didn’t know what we’d do.” Lizza shivered. Nat added quickly, “They will go better, Lizza! Honest they will! Soon as I work my good-luck spell!”

“I’d invest in a privateer. I’d buy an expectation from a sailor.”

“How do you buy an expectation?”

“An expectation is the money a sailor expects to make on the voyage of a privateer. You see, when we capture a British ship, we sell it. The owner of the privateer gets part of the money. The rest goes to the captain and crew. If you want to buy an expectation, you talk to a sailor about it. He’ll take your money. Then he’ll give you a slip of paper that says you’ll get part of what he makes on the voyage.”

“And will that be more money than you gave him?”

“Lots more.”

“Why will the sailor sell his expectation, when he would have more money if he didn’t?”

Father chuckled. “Here comes a sailor now. You might ask him.”

The big man took off his flat black hat and fished a paper from the crown. “Just got one left. For ten per cent of my expectations. What’ll you give me for it?”

“All my money!” Nat laid his shilling in the big man’s hand.

The big man stared at the shilling. “Well, I’ll be a copper-bottomed, bevel-edged…Most money you ever had, eh?”

“Yes, sir!”

“And you come from a long line of sea captains? Who are you?”

“Nat Bowditch.”

“Captain Bowditch’s boy, eh? I remember when the Polly went aground. Same day the war started. April 19, 1775.”

“Granny said it ‘took the tuck’ out of Father.” Nat told the big man about his good-luck spell that he was going to work, only the nor’easter came, and hid the moon.

The big man rubbed his bristling chin. He looked at the shilling. “It’s a bargain, Mate. But keep it a secret!

Nat remembered last winter when Hab had outgrown his coat. “Did you get cold last winter, Hab?”

“Plenty cold.”

Nat was puzzled. “But when the boys yelled at you, you always said, ‘I’m not cold. Only sissies need winter coats.’”

“Of course.” Hab frowned. “Boys don’t blubber. If something hurts, you say it doesn’t.” He looked up at the tall masts of the Freedom and grinned. “She’s a grand ship, isn’t she?”

Nat’s stomach felt hollow. What would it be like with Hab gone? But boys didn’t blubber. He bit his lips to steady them and squared his shoulders.

She and Nat went out into the dark, moonless night, and walked down Turner’s Lane and out on the wharf. Mother helped Nat find the North Star, and told him how the Big Dipper swung around it, and how to tell time by the Dipper. Then she was silent, standing with her hand on Nat’s shoulder, looking up at the stars.

Boys don’t blubber. He must remember that. Finally, Nat said, “It’s all right about school, Mother. When times are better, I’ll get to go back.”

Mother did not answer. She was still gazing up at the sky. After a while she said, “I made up a sort of saying for myself, Nat. I will lift up my eyes unto the stars. Sometimes, if you look at the stars long enough, it helps. It shrinks your day-by-day troubles back down to size.” She smiled.

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.

There was another world, too—the world of Salem. Every time Nat went on an errand he realized how Salem was growing. The men of Salem were proud of their town. Their “city,” they called it now. Here it was—only 1790—not even ten years since we’d won our independence—and Salem had doubled in size! Eight thousand people now! The people bragged of the growth of Salem, and of the daring of her sailors. Elias Hasket Derby’s ships were going farther and farther from their home port. As Nat shouldered his way through the crowded wharves he heard talk of Russia and France and Spain, of Bombay and Calcutta.

Elizabeth studied Nat gravely. “Funny to think you were young once, isn’t it? I suppose you seem older because of your brains. People say figures just run out of your ears. But I don’t see any.” Then, in a swift change of mood, she said, “Mary will be awfully happy here, won’t she? I mean—she knows how to be happy. Being happy takes a lot of practice, don’t you think?”

Lizza said, “Go tell David that, Elizabeth. He’ll love it.”

When Elizabeth had gone, Nat whistled softly. “How do you keep up with her?”

Lizza smiled. “She’s a dear child. But she does say the oddest things. Sometimes I think she must have been born knowing them. I tell her she has eyes in the back of her heart.”

Nat smiled. “And she says odd things? I think you’re quite a pair.”

“Do you suppose Father has them already?”

[…] “Of course! […].” Then he apologized quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bark at you.”

“I know. I’m just like a chair you stumble over in the dark,” Elizabeth said. “It isn’t the chair’s fault, but you kick it anyhow.”

Nat blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“Your brain. It’s too fast. So you stumble on other people’s dumbness. And—you want to kick something.”

Nat felt his face get hot. “But I shouldn’t.”

Elizabeth agreed. “No, you shouldn’t, because even if people are dumb, they aren’t chairs, are they? They do have feelings.”

“Lizza was right,” Nat said, “You do have eyes in the back of your heart. Come on over here and I'll show you how your father uses parallel rulers.” He smiled. “And you may ask all the questions you want to, and I promise not to bark.”

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.”

“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.”

“I—I’m dumb. About book learning, I mean. Do you think you could teach me anything without—bawling me out?”

“Yes. But I couldn’t teach you much as long as you bawled yourself out.”

“Huh…sir?”

“I mean—suppose you made a little mistake—or didn’t understand something right away. If you wasted my time cursing and yelling ‘I can’t get that! What’s the use?’ then I couldn’t teach you.”

“But—but—” For a long time Lem was silent. Then he chuckled. “Mr. Bowditch, sir, heaven help you, but you’ve got yourself a job.”

They shook hands on it.

Now, when Nat taught the rest of the crew, Lem stood listening […]. At first it was slow work. In spite of everything, Lem’s anger would blaze at himself and he would storm and rage. […But finally] Lem settled down, and he learned so fast that he surprised even Nat.

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.

Zack Selby sneered. “You’d think he was running a whole fleet of ships, single-handed, to hear her take on.”

Sour grapes, Nat thought. Zack’s still before the mast, and he’s ten years older than Lem. He said, “I’m glad for Lem, Amanda, but I didn’t do it for him. He did it for himself. He worked and studied harder than any man in the crew.”

“That’s just it, sir!” Amanda said. “Nobody else ever got him to stick his nose in a book!”

Zack sneered again. “Books! Salem men have come to a pretty pass when they have to sail by books! Time was they could double the Horn with nothing but log, lead, and lookout.”

“That’s right, Nat agreed. “They doubled the Horn. And sometimes they got home again. But what about all the ships that don’t come home? If ‘sailing by book’ makes men a little safer, what’s wrong with it?”

“Good for you, Charlie,” Nat said, “you have that French accent, all right. You won’t miss them if they come prowling around, will you?”

Charlie smiled, and bent his head to wipe his wrist over one cheek. In the moonlight, Nat could see the youngster’s tearstained face. Poor tad, he was homesick.

“Charlie, I wonder if you could do something for me?”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“I’m working on a problem in navigation. I’d like to explain it to you. If I can make you understand, I’ll know I’ve got it.”

“Aye, aye, sir! Anything to help!”

They walked the deck while Nat explained. Charlie was quick. He got the explanation much faster than grown men generally did.

“Thank you, Charlie. That’s helped.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bowditch, sir. You don’t know, but you’ve helped me, too!”

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.

“It seems Moore had figured 1800 was a Leap Year. So he had the calculations for the moon off. Seems like an awful little mistake in a book makes a big mistake in miles. That’s what I heard the mate say when we was trying to get off the reef. I don’t understand much about it. Don’t want to, I guess. You see, Mr. Bowditch, if he hadn’t been depending on the book, he’d have been sounding. Log, lead, and lookout. That’s the way to sail […;] we tried to run the boats in [… but] couldn’t see the rocks. When I come aground, I was the only one there.”

Nat said, “You’d have been safer heading straight out from shore.”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed. “I guess that ought to be in a book, too.” Then he flushed. “I didn’t mean it like it sounded […]. But—but—a book ain’t no good.”

Polly stopped smiling. “Aunt Mary, think of it this way; if a ship was aground off Salem Harbor—say on Rising States Ledge—or the Haste—every able-bodied man in Salem would be out there trying to save the crew, wouldn’t he?”

“Of course!”

“And the women wouldn’t try to stop them, would they? No matter how long and hard they worked? No matter if they were risking their lives?”

“No-o-o-o,” Mrs. Boardman admitted, “when a ship is in danger, men do everything they can.”

“Well, every ship is in danger, every time it sails,” Polly said. “But the more men know about navigation, the safer our ships will be, won’t they? Nat isn’t working to save just one ship. He’s working to make every ship safer every time it goes to sea. Every ship in America!” Polly was really warming to her idea. “Every ship in the world!”

“He speaks for a lot of men, Polly. I’m not saying that there are many as mean-spirited as he is—thank heaven. But there are hundreds—thousands—who don’t believe in ‘book sailing.’ You know, seafaring is a lot like medicine. On the one hand—superstition and old wives’ tales; on the other hand—the scientist, trying to solve puzzles and find the answers. And all through the ages men have believed the superstitions and doubted the scientist. Natural, I suppose. You believe what you grow up believing. It’s hard to change.”

“You can’t remember, Polly, when we first started inoculating for smallpox.” He shook his head. “Wonder to me I wasn’t lynched. Inoculation was risky—but not as bad as the epidemics of the smallpox. Then vaccination came along. It was safer, but people raised almost as much fuss.”

Lem growled. “When did you last shoot the sun?”

“About three days ago.”

Lem gulped. “Three days? Seventy-two hours? And since then?”

“It’s simple mathematics, Lem. At such a speed, in so many hours, you log so many miles in a given direction. It’s—”

“Yeah,” Lem growled. “Seventy-two hours through the Roaring Forties. Seventy-two hours by dead reckoning, and then you enter Salem Harbor. Why, you…[…]” He slumped in a chair and stared at Nat.

Nat winked at Polly. “Have you any idea what’s the matter with him?”

Polly’s eyes danced. “He just doesn’t understand about you and mathematics, dear. Two plus two is four. It comes out right, doesn’t it?”

[Polly] looked at Nat with glowing eyes. “It’s really you! Captain Bowditch, F.A.A. and A.M., I’m very proud of you!” She blinked back sudden tears. “Oh, Nat, it’s been so long!”

Nat’s arm tightened around her. Somewhere out of the past a voice whispered, “A long time to sail by ash breeze.”

“Was it awfully hard?” Polly asked.

“Not too bad, Nat told her. “Rough weather sometimes. But I’ll say this for it—I was never becalmed!”