. The
squareheads were hysterical with rage. The squareheads knew why Holy Joe
had suffered--because of them, because of Nils. Because of Newman, too,
but they did not guess that. Then, the knowledge that Newman was trapped
was a heavy blow to sailors and stiffs alike. They had all, consciously
or unconsciously, depended upon Newman's sane strength. With him taken
from them they felt--every man-jack--that their backs were to the wall.

Just as soon as the blood was washed out of my eyes, and I could see my
mates' faces, just as quickly as the ringing in my ears subsided, and I
could hear their voices, I knew that the moment was past when the peace
could be kept in that foc'sle. Perhaps Newman could have composed the
crowd, but I doubt it. The captain had succeeded in driving them too far
and too hard, in frightening them too much. He had won, I thought
despairingly; he would get his mutiny.

For it was now the elemental instinct of self-preservation that swayed
the men and determined their actions. Oh, there was plenty of sympathy
for me, and for Holy Joe and Newman; there was rage on our account; but
underlying the sympathy and rage was a very terrible fear. It was a fear
of death, a fear that each man felt for himself. Self-preservation,
that's it!

My shipmates, sailors and stiffs, had reached a point where they were
afraid not to take some violent and illegal action against the men in
command of the ship. Their long misuse, the wrongs and indignities each
man had suffered, the fate of Nils, the events of the afternoon, had all
culminated in the belief these men now had--good men and bad men both,
remember!--that they must revolt, that they must kill the men aft before
the men aft killed them! There were other factors at work, of course,
greed for gold and lust of revenge, but this simple, primal fear for
their own skins was the determining factor in the situation.

"By God, I never go on deck but I'm scared o' my life!" swore one of the
stiffs, named Green. And he voiced the common feeling.

I was, of course, much concerned for the parson. I went into the port
foc'sle to look at him--and he looked bad, lying there unconscious. The
squareheads had washed his face, but had not ventured to touch his arm.
His face was in a shocking state, and I feared his body might be broken,
as was Nils' body. He was much worse off than I; for he had not my iron
muscles, to withstand hard knocks, nor my skill in