“Turn in,” he said, almost in a whisper. “The next time you might fall.”
The man swung again and Rio drove a wide fist straight into his face. Blood squirted out all over, covering both men. The delegate fell backwards; his head struck a stanchion. He rocked slowly and fell loosely sideways, his shoulder hitting the deck. Rio stepped over to the table and picked up the empty beer bottle.
“My God!” said one of the men. The rest of the crew turned the delegate’s face over. They couldn’t see the features. They talked among themselves quietly for a moment, then walked menacingly toward Rio. He jumped like a monkey into a corner, with the bottle in his left hand and his right fist cocked. He had pulled off his skivy-shirt and the men looked at his chest. It was brown and curiously bare. There was the mark of a slice bar and a dent across his ribs. They had never seen anything like it. They stopped and seemed to smell the blood. Suddenly they recognized the man—his style of fighting, the way animals do, without thought or compassion. Rio stood there, silent, massive, and the men went back to their bunks.
The able-bodied seamen carried the delegate into the washroom and started working on him. Rio put the bottle back on the table. Then he took his bucket and towel into the washroom. He didn’t look at the huddle in the corner, or at the delegate crying softly on a bench, or hear an occasional curse from one of the sailors. He took his bath and returned to his bunk, turned in and stared at the overhead. He could feel the slow roll and sudden pitch of the ship. He loved it and felt at home again....
There were swift movements in the dark around him. Then the main light in the fo’c’sle came on and it was quiet for a moment. He could hear a man cough.
“Is he?”
Another voice.
“Yeah. He’s dead.”
And still another.
“Let’s tell the mate on watch.”