A man apart Newman was. We instinctively recognized that fact from the
beginning. When we had gained the foc'sle, the rage in our hearts
found expression in bitter cursing of our luck, the Swede, the ship and
the officers. But Newman did not curse, nor did we expect him to. We
sensed that he was glad he was at sea in the _Golden Bough_, that he
was there for some peculiar purpose of his own. He was, of course, the
dominant personality in the foc'sle, indeed, in the ship. But,
strangely enough, we did not look to him for leadership. We regarded
him curiously, and with awe and some fear, but we did not look to him
to lead the watch. We felt he was not one of us. His business on the
ship was not our business, his aim not our aim.
Because of this aloofness of Newman, I suddenly found myself occupying
the proud position of cock of the starboard watch. A foc'sle must have
its leading spirit, and the cockship is a position much coveted and
eagerly striven for in most ships, decided only after combat between
the fighting men of the crew. But the _Golden Bough_ had an
extraordinary crew. The majority of the men in my watch were just
stiffs, who possessed neither the experience nor desire to contest for
leadership. The few seamen, besides myself and Newman, were
squareheads, quiet peasants of Scandinavia and Germany, who felt lost
and unhappy without somebody always at hand to order them about.
So, within half an hour after going below for that first time, I found
myself giving orders to men and being obeyed. They were the first
orders I had ever given, and, oh, they were sweet in my mouth! Think
of it, my last ship I had been ordered about by the foc'sle cock. I
had gone to the galley at command and fetched the watch's food. Now,
scant days after, I, a fledgling able seaman, was lording it over the
foc'sle of the hottest ship on the high seas, and ordering another man
to go after the supper. And he went. I think I grew an inch during
that dog-watch; I know my voice gained a mature note it lacked before.
I was a true son of the foc'sle, you must understand, with the habits
and outlook of a barbarian. This leadership I so casually assumed may
appear a petty thing, but it was actually the greatest thing that
happened to me since birth. This little savage authority I commenced
to exercise over my companions by virtue of the threat of my fists, was
my first taste of power. It awakened in me the driving instinct, the
desire to lead, and eventually placed me in command of ships; it also
gave me my first sense of responsibility, without which there can be no
leadership.
During the supper, and after, I found myself watching and studying my
companions. For I feared that my youth might later cause someone to
question my cockship, and I meant to fight for it in that event. But
my scrutiny satisfied my natural confidence. There was no man in my
watch I could not handle in either a rough-and-tumble or stand-up go, I
thought, with the exception of Newman. He would not interfere with
me--his interest lay aft, in the cabin, not in the foc'sle. In the
port watch were two fighting men, my eyes had told me, the Cockney and
the Nigger. If they disputed my will in foc'sle affairs, I was still
confident I should prove the best man. I felt my tenure of office was
secure, and that new, delicious feeling of power quite effaced, for the
moment, the memory of the day, and reconciled me to the ship.
This scrutiny I gave my companions was the first chance I had to fairly
size them up, and I afterwards discovered that my first impressions of
them, individually and collectively, were quite correct.
We were, as you know, thirty men before the mast, fifteen to a watch.
More than half of the thirty were of that class known to sailors as
"stiffs." This is, they were greenhorns masquerading on the articles
as able seamen. And such stiffs! The Knitting Swede must have combed
the jails, and stews, and boozing kens of all San Francisco to assemble
that unsavory mob.
In my watch, Newman, myself, and four square-heads could be called
seamen. But the squareheads knew not a dozen words of English between
them. The other nine were stiffs, various kinds of stiffs, broken men
all, with the weaknesses of dissolute living stamped upon their
inefficient faces.
Except two men. These two were stiffs right enough, and their faces
were evil, God knows, but they plainly were not to be classed as
weaklings. I noticed them particularly that first watch below because
they sat apart from the wrangling, cursing gang, and whispered to each
other, and stared at Newman, who was lying in his bunk.
They were medium sized men, as pallid of face as Newman, himself, and
their faces gave one the impression of both slyness and force. A grim
looking pair; I should not have cared to run afoul of them on the
Barbary Coast after midnight. I already knew the names they called
each other--the only names I ever knew them by--"Boston," for the blond
fellow with the bridge of his nose flattened, and "Blackie" for the
other, a chap as swarthy as a dago, with long, oily black hair, and
eyes too close together.
Even as I watched, they seemed to arrive at some decision in their
whispered conversation. Blackie got up from the bench and crossed over
to Newman's bunk. The latter was lying with his face to the wall.
Blackie placed his hand upon Newman's shoulder, leaned over, and
whispered into his ear.
I saw Newman straighten out his long body. For an instant he lay
tense, then he slowly turned his head and faced the man who leaned over
him. On his face was the same expression of deadly menace he had shown
the Cockney, back in the Swede's barroom.
Blackie could not withstand that deadly gaze. He backed hurriedly
away, and sat down beside his mate. Then Newman spoke in low, measured
tones, and at the first word the babel of noise stopped in the foc'sle,
and all hands watched his lips with bated breath.
"I play a lone hand," he addressed the pair. "You will keep your
mouths shut, and work, and play none of your deviltries in this ship
unless I give the word. Otherwise--" The great scar on his forehead
was blue and twitching, and his voice was deadly earnest. He did a
thing so expressive it made me shudder. He lifted his hand, and
carelessly placed his forefinger on the outer side of his bunk, and
when he lifted it, two of the myriad cockroaches that infested the
foc'sle were mashed fiat on the board.
Blackie's face set sullenly, and the angry blood darkened his cheeks.
Boston wriggled uneasily on his seat, and cleared his throat as though
about to speak. But, at the instant, Lynch's booming voice came into
the foc'sle, calling the watch on deck, and putting an abrupt end to
the scene.
There was an immediate scramble for the exit to the deck. Aye, the
mates had put the fear of the Lord--and themselves--into us, and we
were all eager to show how willing we were! But I heard Fitzgibbon
without, as well as Lynch, and, from the gossip I had heard at the
Swede's, I suspected the foc'sle was about to be introduced to the
orthodox hell-ship manner of turning to the watch. Both mates would
meet us coming up, and the first man on deck would get a clout for not
being sooner, and the last man a boot for being a laggard.
So I held back, and allowed another the honor of being first through
the door.
This honor was seized by none other than Blackie. I suppose he was
anxious to escape from Newman's disturbing gaze; anyhow, at the second
mate's first summons, he bounded from the bench, and tumbled through
the door. I followed immediately after, and saw my suspicions
confirmed.
Mister Fitz was holding a lantern, and Mister Lynch had his hands free
for business. He met Blackie's egress with a careless jab of his fist
that up-ended the unfortunate stiff, and the injunction, "Hearty, now,
you swabs! Lay aft!"
I quickly sidestepped out of the second mate's range, in case he should
aim a blow at me, and started to obey the command to lay aft. But I
had taken but a step when I was arrested by Blackie's action.
Instead of adopting the sensible course of meekness under insult,
Blackie rebounded from the deck and flew at Lynch. In the light cast
by Mister Fitz's lantern, I saw the gleam of a knife blade in Blackie's
hand. I suppose the anger that Newman's words had raised exploded
beneath Lynch's blow, and caused his mad rashness.
But Bully Lynch made nothing of the assault. "Ah, would you!" I heard
him say as Blackie closed with him, and then the knife-hand went up in
the air, and the weapon fell upon the deck. "I'll teach you!" said
Lynch, and he commenced to shower blows upon the man. Blackie screamed
curses, and fought back futilely. Lynch commented in a monotone with
each of his thudding blows, "Take that--that--that." Soon he knocked
Blackie cold, across the forehatch. Then he turned to us who were
clustered outside the foc'sle door, watching. "Aft, with you!
Jumping, it is, now!"
Aft, we went, and jumping, too, with the mate's laugh in our ears.