...of black travellers

Then, on the cargo deck darkened by the brilliance of the lanterns, Fintan discovered the blacks who had settled in for the trip. While the whites were partying in first class, they had come on board, silently; men, women, and children, carrying their bundles on their heads, walking one by one up the plank that served as a gangway. Watched over by the quartermaster they had taken up their places on deck, between the rusted containers, against the frames of the bulwark, and they had waited noiselessly for the hour of departure. Perhaps a child had cried, or perhaps the old man with the thin face, his body covered in rags, had intoned his monotonous chant, his prayer. But the music from the lounge had hidden their voices, and they might have heard Mr. Simpson mocking them, imitating their language, and the English people shouting, "Maïwot! Maïwot!" and the story of "Pickaninny stop along him fellow!"
Fintan felt so angry, so ashamed for a moment he wanted to go back to the first-class lounge. It was as if, in the night, all of the black people were looking at him, a sharp look, full of reproach. But the idea of going back into the huge room full of noise and the odor of stale tobacco was unbearable.

[Onitsha, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]