That scene left its mark upon the mind of every man who took part in or witnessed it—­and every foc’sle man save the helmsman saw Nils go over the side.  It was already late in the middle watch, but no man had yet gone to his sleep; and, considering the habits of sailors and the custom of the sea, this single fact describes how disturbed was the common mind.

Yet the putting away of Nils was peaceful.  We knew that the mate was not alone upon the poop, that the men aft were alert and must know what was going on forward; but, despite Newman’s fears, there was no interference from that quarter.

Nils’ bier was a painter’s stage, and four of the lad’s shipmates held the plank upon their shoulders, with the weighted feet of the shrouded form pointed outboard.  The rest of us, sailors and stiffs, stood about with bared, bowed heads; aye, and most of us, I think, with wet eyes and tight throats.  It seemed a cruel and awful thing to see one of our number disappear forever, and Holy Joe’s words, spoken so softly and clearly, were of a kind to squeeze the hearts of even bad men.  That parson had the gift of gab; he was a skilled orator and he could play upon our heartstrings as a musician upon a harp.

Yet he did not preach at us, or even look at us.  He wasted no words, and the ceremony proceeded with the dispatch Newman desired.  All Holy Joe did was lift his face to the night and pray in simple words that Nils might have a safe passage on this long voyage he was starting.  The words seemed to wash clean our minds.  For the moment the most vicious man in that hard and vicious crowd thought cleanly and innocently.  Our wrongs and hatreds seemed small and of little consequence.  Aye, while Holy Joe prayed for the dead we stood about like a group of awed children.  When he was finished praying, he recited the beautiful words of the Service, and raised his hand—­and the pall-bearers tipped their burden into the sea.

Silently we listened to the dull splash, silently we watched the four men lower the stage to the deck.  It was over.  The parson fell into step with Newman, and the two paced up and down, conversing in low tones.  The crowd dispersed.

Some of my watch went into the foc’sle, to their bunks.  Most of the men sat about the decks, and smoked and talked in whispers.  But the topic of Nils was avoided, as was talk of mutiny.  The squareheads did not mutter threats, the stiffs did not curse.  The spell of the parson’s words was still upon us, and peace reigned.

Newman had won, I thought, and danger was passed.

I found the Nigger seated upon the fore-bitts, whetting his knife upon a stone.  There was something sinisterly suggestive about his occupation at that hour; it was the first break in the strange calm which had fallen upon the crew.

“Tell me, Nigger, who’s the man that’s spying on the big fellow?” I said abruptly, as I sat down beside him.