“You big skulker,” the latter said, with an oath of derision, “go on, and fight!  What in hell are you afraid of?”

“What for Ah fight this white man?  Ah don’t even know who he is.”

“Then I’ll tell you.  Estada is dead; Manuel is a prisoner.  I’m in command of this bark, and I am going to give you a lesson for the benefit of the crew.  You are a big, boasting cur!  I heard what you said when I came down, and now I’ll make you prove it.  You other fellows stand back—­I’ll make this beast fight.”

I took two steps forward, my advance so swift and unexpected, the big negro had not even time in which to throw up an arm in defense.  With open hand I struck him squarely across the face, an insulting, stinging blow.

CHAPTER XXI

IN FULL POSSESSION

A roar of delight mingled with the negro’s snarl of rage at this action.  For an instant the fellow appeared too completely surprised for movement, although an angry oath burst from his lips, and the grin of derision faded from his face.  I knew sailors, and felt that these men would not differ greatly from the occupants of other forecastles on the seven seas.  They would welcome a fight like this and their immediate sympathy would be with me for starting it.  More than that, this black bully, ruling over them by brute force, could be no favorite.  They might fear him, but with that fear would be mingled hate, and a delight in his downfall.

The respite was short, yet in that instant, although I cannot recall removing watchful eyes from the negro’s face, I received an impression of my surroundings never to be erased from memory.  The grim picture arises before me now, distinct in every detail, the gloomy interior, the deck, foul, littered with sea boots, and discarded clothing, and the great beams overhead blackened by smoke.  The rays of the swinging slush lantern barely illuminated the central space, the rows of bunks beyond remaining mere shadows, yet this dim, yellowish light, fell full upon the excited, half circle of men who were roaring about the negro, and had already pressed him forward until he stood confronting me, his grin of derision changed into a scowl of hate.  They were a rough, wild lot, bearded and uncombed, ranging in color from the intense black of Central Africa to the blond of Scandinavia, half naked some, their voices mingling in a dozen tongues, their eyes gleaming with savagery.  They impressed me as animals of the jungle, thirsting for blood, and I knew the man who came victorious from this struggle would be their leader.  The thought stiffened my muscles, and strengthened my determination to win.