The droning chanty filled the narrow cabin An instant with grey Massachusetts sea, Wave of the North, wave of the melted ice, The hard salt-sparkles on the harder rock. The stony islands. Then it died away. “Well,” said the captain, “if that’s how it strikes them⁠— They mean it bad but I don’t take it bad. I get my sailing-orders from the Lord.” He touched the Bible. “And it’s down there, Mister, Down there in black and white⁠—the sons of Ham⁠— Bondservants⁠—sweat of their brows.” His voice trailed off Into texts. “I tell you, Mister,” he said fiercely, “The pay’s good pay, but it’s the Lord’s work, too. We’re spreading the Lord’s seed⁠—spreading his seed⁠—”