These men had lived violent, lawless lives ashore.  Here, at sea, the mates hammered the fear of the Lord and the Law into them.  This was well and good.  But the mates hammered too hard.  They aimed to cow the stiffs, and cow them they did.  But the stiffs’ fear of the afterguard became so great they were like cornered rats.  They came below after a watch on deck with fresh marks upon their faces and bodies, and heard little Nils moaning in his pain.  And each man said to himself, “I may be the next to get what the little squarehead got.”

Misery loves company, so these stiffs naturally drew close together.  Their common hatred and fear of the afterguard fused them into a unit.  By the time we were a month at sea, the stiffs, like the squareheads, were in a most dangerous temper, and ripe for any deviltry.

This common state of mind grew beneath my eyes, but at first I did not see significance in it.  A mutinous state of mind is a normal state of mind in a hell-ship’s foc’sle.

But a mutiny was incubating in that ship.  There were men forward who were vitally interested in bringing trouble to a head, in causing an outbreak of violence, in fomenting an uprising of the slaves.  One day, my eyes were opened to their game.

For weeks I noticed Blackie and Boston circulating among the men during the dog-watches.  They were great whisperers, a secretive pair, and they never spoke their minds outright before the crowd.  I paid them little attention, for I did not like them, and felt no interest in what I thought was their gossip.  It never occurred to me they were industriously fanning the spark of revolt, suggesting revenge to the squareheads, and tickling the rascally imagination of the stiffs with hints of golden loot.

So far my rule as cock of the foc’sle had been unchallenged.  All hands had accepted my will in foc’sle matters willingly enough, and I had been careful not to hector.  As number one man, it was my place to see that the men stood their “peggy”—­that is, they took their regular turn about at getting the food at meal time, and cleaning up the foc’sle.

It came Boston’s peggy day.  He didn’t like it a bit.  He thought himself too good for such menial tasks, and suggested that Shorty, the smallest and weakest of the stiffs, be made permanent peggy.  I vetoed this as unfair, and Boston went about the work, but sullenly.

Next day was Blackie’s peggy, as he well knew.  When we came below at noon, he made no move to fetch the grub from the galley.

“How about dinner, Blackie?” I demanded.

“Well—­how about it?” he replied.  “I’m no servant girl!  Get your own grub!”

All hands looked at me, expectantly.  This was open defiance, and they wanted to see what the cock would do about it.  There was only one thing I could do, and I did it gladly.

I took that chesty stiff by the throat, and squeezed until his eyes popped.  Then I carried him out on deck and stuck his head in the wash-deck tub, to cool his ardor; the whole watch following us as interested spectators.