Newman was my friend—­aye, more than that, he was in my youthful eyes a demi-god, a man to revere and worship above all others.  He was prisoner, helpless.  The crew were bent on mutiny; I could not stop them.  The mutiny was planned and expected by the captain; and its outbreak would be the needed excuse for the slaying of Newman, and, Newman said, of the lady.

How could I save Newman?  That was my problem.  How indeed?  The evil choice was inevitably mine; and I considered it the lesser evil.  If I killed Swope, Newman would be safe.  Perhaps the mutiny would collapse, would never come off.  This last was something Boston and Blackie, blinded by their greed, quite overlooked.  But I knew it was hate and fear of Swope, rather than greed, that impelled the squareheads to revolt.  If Swope were killed, they might not go on with it, and what the sailors decided, the stiffs must agree to.  And in any case, Newman would be safe.

I did not approach my task in a spirit of revulsion and horror.  Indeed, no.  Why should I have felt thus?  In my experience I had not yet gathered the idea that human life was sacred.  Certainly, my experience in the Golden Bough had not taught me that.  I confess, the job I planned was distasteful, extremely so—­but, I thought, necessary.

I planned Yankee Swope’s murder in spite of self-sacrifice.  Aye, truly I did!  I dare say few acts in my life have had a finer, cleaner, less selfish motive.

I did not expect to escape after firing the shot.  I expected the mates or the tradesmen would kill me.  True, I thought of hiding on the dark deck, and picking off the captain when he appeared on the poop.  That is what Boston and Blackie expected me to do.  But I dismissed this thought without serious consideration.  It was uncertain, and I meant to make sure of the brute.  Besides, it was, I felt, cowardly, and I would not be a coward.  I intended to get into the cabin and shoot Swope in his own arm-chair, so to speak.  Afterwards—­well, they could do what they pleased with me.  My friend would be safe.

So I lived through a few very exalted hours before the first night watch came.  Unhappy?  Not I. In moments I touched the skies in exaltation.

For I was the sacrifice.  I was the center of the drama.  I was Fate.  I was a romantic-minded young ass, and the situation flattered my generous conceit.  I was tossing away my life, you see, with a grand gesture, to help my friend.  I was dying for my friend’s sake.  My imagination gave my death nobility.  I imagined Newman and the lady remembering me sadly all their lives long, thinking of me always as their saviour.  I imagined my name on sailors’ lips, in ships not yet launched; they would talk of me, of Jack Shreve, the lad who killed Yankee Swope so his shipmate might live.

My resolution did not weaken; rather, it grew firmer with the passage of the hours.  Of course, I did not take the crew into my confidence (there might be, I thought, another Cockney among them), but I laid down the law to Boston and Blackie, and they promised faithfully to obey my injunctions.  They promised they would keep the men in check until I had completed my task.  They promised also to mislead the spy, and see that no man laid violent hands upon him.