Goliath stood like a tower, his eyes alone betraying the fierce anger boiling within.  When we touched the beach, his voice was mild end gentle as a child’s, his movements calm and deliberate.  As soon as we had beached the boat he stepped ashore, and in two strides was in the middle of the snarling group.  Further parley ceased at once.  Snatching the loudest of them by the breast of his shirt with his right hand, another one by the collar with his left, he flung himself backwards towards the boat, knocking the interveners right and left.  But a protruding fragment of rock caught his heel, bringing him with his captives to the ground in a writhing mass.  The rest, maddened beyond restraint of fear, flung themselves upon the prostrate man, the glimmer of more than one knife-blade appearing.  Two of us from the boat—­one with the tiller, the other brandishing a paddle—­rushed to the rescue; but before we arrived the giant had heaved off his assailants, and, with no other weapons than his bare hands, was doing terrific execution among them.  Not knowing, I suppose, whether we were friendly to him or not, he shouted to us to keep away, nor dare to interfere.  There was no need.  Disregarding such trifles as a few superficial cuts—­not feeling them perhaps—­he so unmercifully mauled that crowd that they howled again for mercy.  The battle was brief and bloody.  Before hostilities had lasted five minutes, six of the aggressors were stretched insensible; the rest, comprising as many more, were pleading for mercy, completely sober.  Such prowess on the part of one man against twelve seems hardly credible; but it must be remembered that Goliath fought, with all the moral force of the ship’s officers behind him, against a disorganized crowd without backbone, who would never have dared to face him but for the temporary mania induced by the stuff they had drunk.  It was a conflict between a lion and a troop of jackals, whereof the issue was never in doubt as long as lethal weapons were wanting.

Standing erect among the cowering creatures, the great negro looked every inch a mediaeval hero.  In a stern voice he bade his subjugated enemies to get into the boat, assisting those to do so who were too badly hurt to rise.  Then we shoved off for the ship—­a sorrowful gang indeed.

As I bent to my oar, I felt very sorry for what had happened.  Here were half the crew guilty of an act of violence upon an officer, which, according to the severe code under which we lived, merited punishment as painful as could be inflicted, and lasting for the rest of the voyage.  Whatever form that punishment might take, those of us who were innocent would be almost equal sufferers with the others, because discrimination in the treatment between watch and watch is always difficult, and in our case it was certain that it would not be attempted.  Except as regarded physical violence, we might all expect to share alike.  Undoubtedly things looked very unpleasant.  My gloomy cogitations were abruptly terminated by the order to “unrow”—­we were alongside.  Somehow or other all hands managed to scramble on board, and assist in hoisting the boat up.