ope from another, some of them knew not a
word of English, half of them were still drunk, and stumbled and fell
as they were driven about, the other half were seasick and all but
helpless. Oh, they caught it, I tell you! The mates were merciless,
as their reputations declared them to be. It was sing out an order,
then knock a man down, jerk him to his feet, thrust a line into his
hands, and kick him until he bent his weight upon it. It was bitter
driving. But I'll admit it brought order out of chaos. We cleared the
decks of the first-day-out hurrah's nest in jig time. Mercifully, it
was fair weather, with a light, steady, fair breeze.

I found myself working shoulder to shoulder with a big, trim-bodied
mulatto. He was a sailorman, I saw at a glance, and we stuck together
as much as possible during the morning. He already bore Fitzgibbon's
mark in the shape of a raw gash on his forehead, and his blood-specked
eyes were hot with mingled rage and terror. He murmured over and over
again to me, as though obsessed by the words, "Does yoh know where yoh
am, mate? Lawd--de _Golden Bough_! de _Golden Bough_!"

There came an ominous flapping of canvas aloft. "He done gib her too
much wheel!" said the mulatto to me. "Lawd help him!"

The black-bearded man who had been lounging over the poop rail watching
us work, and at whom I had been casting curious and fearful glances as
I rushed about beneath his arctic glare, now swung about and damned the
helmsman's eye with soft voiced, deadly words. The mates' voices
dropped low, and we listened to Yankee Swope's storm of venomous curses
with bated breath.

As a man curses so he is. I learned that truth that morning, a truth
amply tested by the days that came after. It was like a book page
before my eyes, revealing the different characters of the three men who
ruled our world, by comparison of their oaths.

Now Lynch swore robustious oaths in a hearty voice. They enlivened
your legs and arms, for you sensed there was a blow behind the words if
you lagged. But they did not rasp your soul. You knew there was no
personal application to them. They were the oaths of a bluff, hard man
who would drive you mercilessly, but who would none the less respect
your manhood. They were the oaths of the boss to the man, and they
bespoke force.

Fitzgibbon's swearing always sounded dirty. His curses fell about you
like a vile shower, and aroused your hot resentment; the same word