В чёрной торговле, 2 глава, 2

Когда капитан Денби вваливается в каюту, первый помощник Джек Пол не думает о книгах. Его мысли заняты несчастными чернокожими беднягами, запертыми в трюме, приглушённые стоны которых и звон их кандалов доносятся сквозь переборку, образующую переднюю стену каюты. Капитан Денби не обращает внимания на молчание и уныние своего младшего офицера и напарника и, широко расставив ноги, по-матросски направляется к рундуку, где хранятся бутылки. Тщательно выбрав одну из них, он достаёт бутылку рома и бутылку хереса.«Ты не любишь ром», — объясняет капитан Денби, ставя бутылку хереса так, чтобы первый помощник Джек Пол мог до неё дотянуться.Первый помощник Джек Пол машинально наливает себе немного в…
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,