It was after the coffee interval, which mitigates the sourness of the morning watch, when daylight had brought its chill, grey light to the wide, wet decks, that the mate came forward to superintend the “pull all round,” which is the ritual sequel to washing down.

“Lee fore-brace, dere!” his flat, voluminous voice ordered, heavy with the man’s potent and dreaded personality.  They flocked to obey, scurrying like scared rats, glancing at him in timid hate.  He came striding along the weather side of the deck from the remote, august poop; he was like a dreadful god making a dreadful visitation upon his faithful.  Short-legged, tending to bigness in the belly, bearded, vibrant with animal force and personal power, his mere presence cowed them.  His gross face, the happy face of an egoist with a sound digestion, sent its lofty and sure regard over them; it had a kind of unconsciousness of their sense of humility, of their wrong and resentment—­the innocence of an aloof and distant tyrant, who has not dreamed how hurt flesh quivers and seared minds rankle.  He was bland and terrible; and they hated him after their several manners, some with dull tear, one or two—­and Slade among them—­with a ferocity that moved them like physical nausea.

He had left his coat on the wheel-box to go to his work, and was manifestly unarmed.  The belief which had currency in the forecastle, that he came on watch with a revolver in his coat-pocket, did not apply to him now; they could have seized him, smitten him on his blaspheming mouth, and hove him over the side without peril.  It is a thing that has happened to a hated officer more than once or ten times, and a lie, solemnly sworn to by every man of the watch on deck, has been entered in the log, and closed the matter for all hands.  He was barer of defense than they, for they had their sheath-knives; and he stood by the weather-braces, arrogant, tyrannical, overbearing, and commanded them.  He seemed invulnerable, a thing too great to strike or defy, like the white squalls that swooped from the horizon and made of the vast Villingen a victim and a plaything.  His full, boastful eye traveled over them absently, and they cringed like slaves.

“Belay, dere!” came his orders, overloud and galling to men surging with cowardly and insufferable haste.  “Lower tobsail—­haul!  Belay!  Ubber tobsail—­haul, you sons of dogs!  Haul, dere, blast you!  You vant me to come over and show you?”

Servilely, desperately, they obeyed him, spending their utmost strength to placate him, while the naked spirit of murder moved in every heart among them.  At the tail of the brace, Conroy, with his cuts stanched, pulled with them.  His abject eyes, showing the white in sidelong glances, watched the great, squat figure of the mate with a fearful fascination.