But he was vicious， malignant， dirty， and without commondecency. He was a tall， powerful man， and he fought witheverybody. And there was no fairness in his fighting. Hisfirst fight on board， the first day out， was with me， whenhe， desiring to cut a plug of chewing tobacco， took mypersonal table-knife for the purpose， and whereupon， I，on a hair-trigger， promptly exploded. After that he foughtwith nearly every member of the crew. When his clothingbecame too filthy to be bearable by the rest of us， we put itto soak and stood over him while he washed it. In short， theBricklayer was one of those horrible and monstrous thingsthat one must see in order to be convinced that they exist.
I will only say that he was a beast， and that we treatedhim like a beast. It is only by looking back through theyears that I realise how heartless we were to him. He waswithout sin. He could not， by the very nature of things，have been anything else than he was. He had not madehimself， and for his making he was not responsible. Yetwe treated him as a free agent and held him personallyresponsible for all that he was and that he should not havebeen. As a result， our treatment of him was as terribleas he was himself terrible. Finally we gave him the silenttreatment， and for weeks before he died we neitherspoke to him nor did he speak to us. And for weeks hemoved among us， or lay in his bunk in our crowded house，grinning at us his hatred and malignancy. He was a dyingman， and he knew it， and we knew it. And furthermore，he knew that we wanted him to die. He cumbered ourlife with his presence， and ours was a rough life that maderough men of us. And so he died， in a small space crowdedby twelve men and as much alone as if he had died onsome desolate mountain peak. No kindly word， no lastword， was passed between. He died as he had lived， abeast， and he died hating us and hated by us.
And now I come to the most startling moment of mylife. No sooner was he dead than he was flung overboard.
He died in a night of wind， drawing his last breath as themen tumbled into their oilskins to the cry of “All hands！”
And he was flung overboard， several hours later， on a dayof wind. Not even a canvas wrapping graced his mortalremains； nor was he deemed worthy of bars of iron at hisfeet. We sewed him up in the blankets in which he diedand laid him on a hatch-cover for’ard of the main-hatchon the port side. A gunnysack， half full of galley coal， wasfastened to his feet.
It was bitter cold. The weather-side of every rope， spar，and stay was coated with ice， while all the rigging was aharp， singing and shouting under the fierce hand of thewind. The schooner， hove to， lurched and flounderedthrough the sea， rolling her scuppers under and perpetuallyflooding the deck with icy salt water. We of the forecastlestood in sea-boots and oilskins. Our hands were mittened，but our heads were bared in the presence of the deathwe did not respect. Our ears stung and numbed andwhitened， and we yearned for the body to be gone. Butthe interminable reading of the burial service went on.
The captain had mistaken his place， and while he read onwithout purpose we froze our ears and resented this finalhardship thrust upon us by the helpless cadaver. As fromthe beginning， so to the end， everything had gone wrongwith the Bricklayer. Finally， the captain’s son， irritatedbeyond measure， jerked the book from the palsied fingersof the old man and found the place. Again the quaveringvoice of the captain arose. Then came the cue： “And thebody shall be cast into the sea.” We elevated one end ofthe hatch-cover， and the Bricklayer plunged outboard andwas gone.
Back into the forecastle we cleaned house， washing outthe dead man’s bunk and removing every vestige of him.
By sea law and sea custom， we should have gathered hiseffects together and turned them over to the captain， who，later， would have held an auction in which we should havebid for the various articles. But no man wanted them， sowe tossed them up on deck and overboard in the wake ofthe departed body—the last ill-treatment we could deviseto wreak upon the one we had hated so. Oh， it was raw，believe me； but the life we lived was raw， and we were asraw as the life.
The Bricklayer’s bunk was better than mine. Less seawater leaked down through the deck into it， and thelight was better for lying in bed and reading. Partly forthis reason I proceeded to move into his bunk. My otherreason was pride. I saw the sailors were superstitious，and by this act I determined to show that I was braverthan they. I would cap my proved equality by a deed thatwould compel their recognition of my superiority. Oh，the arrogance of youth！ But let that pass. The sailors wereappalled by my intention. One and all， they warned methat in the history of the sea no man had taken a deadman’s bunk and lived to the end of the voyage. Theyinstanced case after case in their personal experience. Iwas obdurate. Then they begged and pleaded with me，and my pride was tickled in that they showed they reallyliked me and were concerned about me. This but servedto confirm me in my madness. I moved in， and， lying inthe dead man’s bunk， all afternoon and evening listenedto dire prophecies of my future. Also were told stories ofawful deaths and gruesome ghosts that secretly shiveredthe hearts of all of us. Saturated with this， yet scoffing atit， I rolled over at the end of the second dog- watch andwent to sleep.
