how little love was lost between the skipper and
his officers, Goliath having even once gone so far as to give me a
very emphatic opinion of his about the "old man" of a most unflattering
nature. And had such a state of things existed on board an English ship,
the crew would simply have taken charge, for they would have seen the
junior officers flouted, snubbed, and jeered at; and, of course, what
they saw the captain do, they would not be slow to improve on. Many a
promising young officer's career has been blighted in this way by the
feminine spite of a foolish man unable to see that if the captain shows
no respect to his officers, neither will the crew, nor obedience either.

But in an American ship, so long as an officer remains an officer, he
must be treated as such by every man, under pain of prompt punishment.
Yankee skippers have far too much NOUS to allow their hands to grow
saucy in consequence of division among the after-guard. So now a sort
of court-martial was held upon the unfortunates who had dared to attack
Goliath, at which that sable hero might have been the apple of Captain
Slocum's eye, so solicitous was he of Mistah Jones' honour and the
reparation to be made.

This sort of thing was right in his line. Naturally cruel, he seemed to
thoroughly enjoy himself in the prospect of making human beings twist
and writhe in pain. Nor would he be baulked of a jot of his pleasure.

Goliath approached him, and muttered a few words, meant, I felt sure, to
appease him by letting him know how much they had suffered at his strong
hands; but he turned upon the negro with a savage curse, bidding him be
silent. Then every one of the culprits was stripped, and secured to the
lash-rail by the wrists; scourges were made of cotton fish-line, knotted
at intervals, and secured to a stout handle; the harpooners were told
off as executioners, and the flogging began. Perhaps it was necessary
for the maintenance of discipline--certainly it was trivial compared
with the practice, till recently, in our own army and navy; but I am
glad to say that, compelled to witness it, I felt quite sick--physically
sick--trembling so in every limb that my legs would not support me. It
was not fear, for I had nothing to fear had I been ever such a coward.
Whatever it was, I am not sorry either to have felt it or to own it,
even while I fully admit that for some forms of wickedness nothing but
the lash seems adequate punishment.

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