Hans Neilsen was a big Dane, with a great wave of blond beard blowing from just below his pale blue eyes, and a leonine head covered with a straw-coloured mane. Although he was a giant in stature he was not what you would call a fine figure of a man, for he was round-shouldered and loosely jointed. And besides these things he had a shambling, undecided gait and a furtive side-long glance, ever apparently searching for a potential foe. Yet with all his peculiarities I loved him, I never knew why. Perhaps it was the unfailing instinct of a child—I was scarcely more—for people whose hearts are kind. He was an A.B. on board of a lumbering old American-built ship owned in Liverpool and presently bound thence to Batavia. I was “the boy”—that is to say, any job that a man could possibly growl himself out of or shirk in any way rapidly filtered down to me, mine by sea-right. And in my leisure I had the doubtful privilege of being body servant to eighteen men of mixed nationalities and a never-satisfied budget of wants. Of course she wasn’t as bad as a Geordie collier, the old Tucson. I didn’t get booted about the head for every little thing, nor was I ever aroused out of a dead sleep to hand a fellow a drink of water who was sitting on the breaker. Nevertheless, being nobody’s especial fancy and fully conscious of my inability to take my own part, I was certainly no pampered menial.

They were a queer lot, those fellows. Nothing strange in that, of course, so far, remembering how ships’ crews are made up nowadays, but these were queer beyond the average. In the first place no two of them were countrymen. There were representatives of countries I had till then been ignorant of. The “boss” of the fo’c’s’le was a huge Montenegrin, who looked to my excited fancy like a bandit chief, and used to talk in the worst-sounding lingo I ever heard with Giuseppe from Trieste and Antone from Patras. Louis Didelot, a nimble black-avised little matelot from Nantes, was worst off for communication with his shipmates, not one of whom could speak French, but somehow he managed to rub along with a barbarous compound of French, Spanish, and English. Neilsen chummed, as far as an occasional chat went, with a swarthy little Norwegian from Hammerfest (I believe he was a Lapp), whose language did not seem to differ much from Danish. The rest of the crew were made up of negroes from various far-sundered lands, South American hybrids including one pure-blooded Mexican with a skin like copper, a Russian and two Malays. That fo’c’s’le was Babel over again, although in some strange manner all seemed to find some sufficient medium for making themselves understood. On deck of course English (?) was spoken, but such English as would puzzle the acutest linguist that ever lived if he wasn’t a sailor-man too. Nothing could have borne more conclusive testimony to the flexibility of our noble tongue than the way in which the business of that ship was carried on without any hitch by those British officers and their polyglot crew. And another thing—there were no rows. I have said that Sam the Montenegrin (Heaven only knows what his name really was) was the boss of the fo’c’s’le, but he certainly took no advantage of his tacitly accorded position, and except for the maddening mixture of languages our quarters were as quiet as any well-regulated household.

But as long as I live I shall always believe that most, if not all, of our fellows were fugitives from justice, criminals of every stamp, and owing to the accident of their being thus thrown together in an easy-going English ship they were just enjoying a little off-season of rest prior to resuming operations in their respective departments when the voyage was over. I may be doing them an injustice, but as I picked up fragments of the various languages I heard many strange things, which, when I averaged them up, drove me to the conclusion I have stated. From none of them, however, did I get anything definite in the way of information about their past except Neilsen. He spoke excellent English, or American, with hardly a trace of Scandinavian accent, and often, when sitting alone in the dusk of the second dog-watch on the spars lashed along by the bulwarks, I used to hear him muttering to himself in that tongue, every now and then giving vent to a short barking laugh of scorn. I was long getting into his confidence, for he shrank from all society, preferring to squat with his chin supported on both hands staring at vacancy and keeping up an incessant muttering. But at last the many little attentions I managed to show him thawed his attitude of reserve towards me a little, and he permitted me to sit by his side and prattle to him of my Arab life in London, and of my queer experiences in the various ways of getting something to eat before I went to sea. Even then he would often scare me just as I was in the middle of a yarn by throwing up his head and uttering his bark of disdain, following it up immediately by leaving me. Still I couldn’t be frightened of him, although I felt certain he was a little mad, and I persevered, taking no notice of his eccentricities. At last we became great friends, and he would talk to me sanely by the hour, when during the stillness of the shining night-watches all our shipmates, except the helmsman and look-out man, were curled up in various corners asleep.

So matters progressed until we were half-way up the Indian Ocean from St. Paul’s. One night in the middle watch I happened to say (in what connection I don’t know), “It’s my birthday to-day. I’m thirteen.” “Why, what day is it den?” he said listlessly. “The 25th of June,” I replied. “My God! my God!” he murmured softly, burying his face in his hands and trembling violently. I was so badly scared I could say nothing for a few minutes, but sat wondering whether the moon, which was literally blazing down upon us out of the intense clearness above, had affected his weak brain. Presently he seemed to get steadier, and I ventured to touch his arm and say, “Ain’t you well, Neilsen? Can I get you anythin’?” There was silence for another short spell. Then he suddenly lifted his head, and said, not looking at me, but straight before him, “Yes, I vill tell him. I must tell him.” Then, still without looking at me, he went on—“Boy, I’m goin’ t’ tell ye a yarn about myself, somethin’ happened to me long time ago. Me an’ my chum, a little Scotch chap, was ’fore de mast aboard of a Yank we’d shipped in in Liverpool. She wuz a reg’lar blood-boat. You’ve herd o’ de kind, I ’spose, no watch an’ watch all day, everythin’ polished ’n painted till you c’d see y’r face in it ’low and aloft. Ole man ’n three mates alwas pradin’ roun’ ’ith one han’ on their pistol pockets ’n never a ’norder give widout a ‘Gaw-dam-ye’ to ram it down like. I tell ye wot ’tis; sailors offen tawk ’bout hell erflote, but der ain’t menny off ’em knows wot it means, leest not nowdays. I’ve sailed in de packets, the Westerun oshun boats I mean, under some toughs, ’fore steam run ’em off, an’ I ’low dey wuz hard—forrard’s well’s aft—but, boy, dey wuz church, dey wuz dat, ’longside the ’Zekiel B. Peck. W’y! dey tort nuttin’, nuttin ’tall, ov scurfin’ ye way frum de wheel, you a doin’ yer damdest too, ter pint her troo d’ eye ov a needle, ’n lammin’ th’ very Gawdfergotten soul out ov yer jest ter keep der ’and in like. I wuz a dam site biggern dose days den I am now, fur I wuz straight ez a spruce tree ’n limber too, I wuz; but I got my ’lowance reglar ’n took it lyin’ down too like de rest. ’N so I s’pose ’twoud a gone on till we got to ’Frisco an’ de blood-money men come and kicked us out ov her as ushal. Only suthin’ happend. Seems ter me suthin’s alwus a happenin’ wot ye ain’t recknd on, but sum things happen like ’s if de devil jammed a crowbar inter ye somewheres ’n hove de bes’ part of ye inter hell wile de rest ov ye goes a grubbin’ along everlastingly lookin’ fer wot ye lost an’ never findin’ it. Well,’twuz like dis; we wuz a creepin’ along up de coast ov Lower California, de weadder bein’ beastly, nuttin’ but one heavy squall on top of anoder, ’n de wind a flyin’ all round de compass. It wuz all han’s, all han’s night’n day, wid boot ’n blayin’ pin ter cheer us up, till we wuz more like a crowd o’ frightend long-shoremen dan a crew o’ good sailor-men. One forenoon,’bout seven bells, we’d ben a shortenin’ down at de main ’n wuz all a comin’ down helter-skelter, de mate n’ tird mate standin’ by in the skuppers as ushal to belt each man as he touched de deck fer not bein’ smarter. I come slidin’ down de topmast backstays ’n dropped on to de deck jest be’ind de mate as Scotty, my chum, landed in front ov him. De mate jest let out and fetched Scotty in the ear. Pore ole chap, he flung up his arms, ’n spoutin’ blood like a whale, dropped all ov a heap in his tracks. I don’t rightly know how ’twuz, but next ting I’d got de mate (’n he wuz nearly as big as Sam) by de two ankles, a swingin’ him roun’ my head ’sif he wuz a capsan-bar. He hit sometin’, I spose it wuz de topsl-halliard block, ’n it sounded like a bag ov eggs. De rest ov de purceedins wuz all foggy like to me, ’cept dat I was feelin’ ’bout as big ’n strong as twenty men rolled inter one ’n I seemed ter be a smashin’ all creation into bloody pieces. I herd de poppin’ ov revolver shots in hunderds, but I didn’t feel none ov ’em. Presently it all quieted down ’n dere wuz me a settin’ on de deck in de wash ov de lee scuppers a nursin’ Scotty like a baby ’n him a lookin’ up at me silly-like. The ship was all aback an de rags ov most ov the canvas wuz slattin’ ’n treshin’ like bullock whips, while long pennants of canvas clung to de riggin’ all over her. I put Scotty down ’n gets up on my feet to hev a look roun’. De deck was like a Saladero, dead bodies a lyin’ about in all directions. Seein’ Scotty standin’ up holdin’ on ter de pin-rail I sez to him, ‘Scotty, what in hell’s de matter, hev we ben struck by lightnin’?’ He jest waggled his head ’sif he wuz drunk ’n sez, ‘Yes, chum, I guess we hev. Ennyhow I’m glad ter see it’s hit de right ones.’ ’N den he laughed. ‘Sounded like breakin’ dishes it did.’ Well, I begun to git scared ’cause I couldn’t sort it out at all, until some ov de other fellers come from somewhere, ’n we sot down along de spars while dey told me, all de while keepin’ deir eyes on me, ’n lookin’ ’s if dey wuz ready to git up and scoot if I moved. It ’peared I’d simply sailed in ’sif I’d ben made of iron, ’n slaughtered dem officers right an’ left with nottin’ but me bare hands ’n takin’ no more notice of deir six-shooters dan if dey’d ben pea-guns. I wonderd wot made me feel so stiff an’ sore here and dere, seems I’d got two or tree bullets plugged inter me while we wuz playin’ de game. ’N right in de dick of it, down comes a reglar hurrikin squall ketchin’ her flat aback ’n rippin de kites offn her ’sif dey wuz paper. Most o’ de fellers, seein’ de hand I had, chipped in, ’n two ov em laid quiet ’longside ov de der corpses. It wuz a reglar clean sweep. All tree mates, carpenter, and stooard, an’ de ole man, blast him, wuz dead, ’n dey said I’d killed em all. Well, I cou’dn’t conterdickt em, but somehow I didn’t feel s’if ’twas true, I didn’t feel bothered a bit about it, ’n as ter feelin’ sorry—why I wuz just as contented as a hog in a corn-bin. But sometin’ had ter be done fer we none of us tought de late officers ov de ’Zekiel B. Peck wort hangin’ fur, so we made shift to run her in fur de land, due East. When we got widin twenty mile ov it we pervisioned a couple ov boats an’ set fire to her, waitin’ till she got well a goin’, ’n den lowerin ’n pullin’ fur de beach. We didn’t take nuttin’ but some grub, dere warnt a pirut among us, an we ’ranged ter separate soon’s we got ashore, after we’d smashed de boats up. It come off all right, ’n me and Scotty wandered up country till we got steady work on a ranch (sort o’ farm) an’ we ’lowed we wouldn’t never go to sea no more. We wuz very happy for ’bout a year until Scotty begun ter weaken on me. He’d picked up wid some gal at a place a few mile off ’n I wuz out of it. He useter leave me alone night after night, knowin’ he wuz all de world ter me, knowin’ too det I’d gin a good many men’s blood fer his’n. Last we fell out, ’n after a many words ’d been slung between us, he upn and call me a bloody murderer. ’Twuz all over in a second, ’n I wuz nussin’ him in my arms agen like I did once before, but his head hung over limp, his neck wuz broke. ’N I ben talkin’ to him ever sence ’n tellin’ him how I’d gin forty lives ef I had’m ter see him chummy wit me agen, but I never get no answer.”

He stopped, and almost immediately “eight bells” struck. I went below and slept my allotted time, waking at the hoarse row of “Now then you sleepers, seven bells,” to get the breakfast in. The morning passed in humdrum fashion, the wind having dropped to almost a dead calm. After dinner I was looking over the side at the lovely cool depths smiling beneath, and the fancy suddenly seized me to have a dip, as I had often done before, although never in that ship. I could swim, but very little, so I made a bowline in the end of a rope, and making it fast so that about a couple of fathoms would trail in the water, I stripped in the chains, slipped the bowline over my head and under my arms, and slid down into the sea. It was just heavenly. But I found the ship was slipping along through the water just a little. So much the better. Putting my left arm out like an oar I sheered away from the side until the rope that held me was out straight, and there was a wide gap of blue between me and the black hull of the ship. I was enjoying myself in perfect fashion when suddenly I saw a huge black shadow stealing upward from under the ship’s bottom towards me, and immediately, my bowels boiling with fear, I lost all my strength, my arms flew up and I slipped out of the loop. I heard a splash, and close beside me an awful struggle began while I lay in full possession of all my senses, just floating without motion. Neilsen had sprung into the sea and seized the shark by the tail, being all unarmed. Suddenly I felt the coils of a rope fall upon me, and with a sense of returning life I clutched them, and was presently hauled on board. I must have fainted, for when I again realised my surroundings Neilsen was lying on deck near me, a wide red stream creeping slowly down from him to the scuppers. Opening his eyes as I staggered to my feet, he said feebly, “Dis’ll pay, won’t it, boy?” and died.