Lieutenant, are the laws of the ship above the laws of humanity? and God’s laws? that command us to visit those who are in prison, the sick and afflicted? Shame, brother, shame, that anything in the form of a man, or in the image of God should be treated thus—ironed to the floor, and stifled with bad air. Cora, you must leave here. Mr. Wallace, will you escort her on deck? This interview must close. When is our trial to come off? asked Tom Jones. That I can’t say, replied the Lieutenant. But it is improper to talk about it here. When the time comes, you will be notified. As for me, said Jones, I am ready to be tried, and if convicted, to die. I am alone in the world—without wife, child or chick. There is no one to mourn my loss or suffer by my disgrace. But it is different with my ship-mate, Frost. He has a wife and children that love him dearly, I wish he could be spared. If it is necessary that the law should be vindicated, and an example set to deter others, let them make an example of me, and hang me to the yard-arm, in view of the whole ship’s company. If any one is to blame, I am. This man is innocent. He took no part in the affray. He was shoved to the front by the crowd behind. As for me, I was a leader, an unconscious leader. I was crazed with rum. I came on this ship when a small boy. It was here I took my first drink. It was here I acquired the appetite for strong drink. It was here that I was educated, that to be manly, I must take my rations. On the ship, I kept sober and performed my duty. Here I could get but a limited quantity. On the ship I learned and believed that Friday was an unlucky day, and the ship that left port on that day would meet with bad luck. Never before had the Captain ordered us to sail on that day. Being frenzied with rum at the tavern, where we could get all we wanted, a few of us resolved that we would not go to sea that day. You know the rest better than I do. It was not Tom Jones that revolted, it was the rum that was in him. It was rum in and Tom Jones out. It was the act of a mad man—a demon—a devil, crazed by rum. Mr. Wallace, let us go. It is sickening here, exclaimed the Lieutenant. What, said Cora, is sickening? these men or the air you compel them to breathe? This, brother, is murder without the benefit of the clergy. Perhaps you have the right to take these men’s lives, according to law, but you have no right to be inhuman and deprive them of life in this foul and poisonous air. What would you have me do, Cora? said the Lieutenant.