by Max Brand
“Wait! Stay here! You’ll do what I tell you, Harrigan. I’m the boss belowdecks.”
It was a declaration of war, and what it cost Campbell no one could ever tell. He stood swaying slightly from side to side, while he glared at Henshaw.
“You’re drunk,” remarked the captain coldly. “I’ll give you half an hour, Campbell, to come to your senses—but after that—”
“Damn you and your time! I want no tune! I say the lad has been put through hell and shan’t go back to it, do you hear me?”
Henshaw was controlling himself carefully, or else he wished to draw out the engineer.
He said: “You know the record of Harrigan?”
“What record? The one McTee told you? Would you believe what Black McTee says of a man he tried to break and couldn’t?”
“My friend McTee is out of the matter. All that you have to do with is my order. You’ve heard that order, Campbell!”
“I’ll see you in hell before I send him to the hole.”
Henshaw waited another moment, quietly enjoying the wild excitement of the engineer like the Spanish gentleman who sits in safety in the gallery and watches the baiting of the bull in the arena below.
“I shall send that order to you in writing. If you refuse to obey then, I shall act!”
He turned on his heel; McTee stayed a moment to smile upon Harrigan, and then followed. As the door closed, Harrigan turned to Campbell and found him sitting, shuddering, with his face buried in his hands. He touched the Scotchman on the shoulder.
“You’ve done your part, chief. I won’t let you do any more. I’m starting now for the hole.”
“What?” bellowed Campbell. “Am I no longer the boss of my engine room? You’ll sit here till I tell you to move! Damn Henshaw and his written orders!”
“If you refuse to obey a written order, he can take your license away from you in any marine court.”
“Let it go.”
“Ah-h, chief, ye’re afther bein’ a thrue man an’ a bould one, but I’d rather stay the rest av me life in the hole than let ye ruin yourself for me. Whisht, man, I’m goin’! Think no more av it!”
Campbell’s eyes grew moist with the temptation, but then the fighting blood of his clan ran hot through his veins.
“Sit down,” he commanded. “Sit down and wait till the order comes. It’s a fine thing to be chief engineer, but it’s a better thing to be a man. What does Bobbie say?”
And he quoted in a ringing voice: “A man’s a man for a’ that!” Afterward they sat in silence that grew more tense as the minutes passed, but it seemed that Henshaw, with demoniac cunning, had decided to prolong the agony by delaying his written order and the consequent decision of the engineer. And Harrigan, watching the suffused face of Campbell, knew that the time had come when his will would not suffice to make him follow the dictates of his conscience.
All of which Henshaw knew perfectly well as he sat in his cabin filling the glass of McTee with choice Scotch.
They sat for an hour or more, chatting, and McTee drew a picture of the pair waiting below in silent dread—a picture so vivid that Henshaw laughed in his breathless way. In time, however, he decided that they had delayed long enough, and took up pen and paper to write the order which was to convince the dauntless Campbell that even he was a slave. As he did so, Sloan, the wireless operator, appeared at the door, saying: “The report has come, sir.”
CHAPTER 23
He held a little folded paper in his hand. At sight of it Henshaw turned in his chair and faced Sloan with a wistful glance.
“Good?”
“Not very, sir.”
Henshaw rose slowly and frowned like the king on the messenger who bears tidings of the lost battie.
“Then very bad?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Very well. Let me have the message. You may go.”
He took the slip of paper cautiously, as if it were dangerous in itself, and then called back the operator as the latter reached the door.
“Come back a minute. Sloan, you’re a good boy—a very good boy. Faithful, intelligent; you know your business. H-m! Here—here’s a five spot”—he slipped the money into Sloan’s hand—“and you shall have more when we touch port. Now this message, my lad—you couldn’t have made any mistake in receiving it? You couldn’t have twisted any of the words a little?”
“No mistake, I’m sure, sir. It was repeated twice.”
“That makes it certain, then—certain,” muttered Henshaw. “That is all, Sloan.”
As the latter left the cabin, the old captain went back to his chair and sat with the paper resting upon his knee, as if a little delay might change its import.
“I am growing old, McTee,” he said at last, apologetically, “and age affects the eyes first of all. Suppose you take this message, eh? And read it through to me—slowly—I hate fast reading, McTee.”
The big Scotchman took the slip of paper and read with a long pause between each word:
Beatrice—failing—rapidly—hemorrhage—this—morning—very—weak.
The paper was snatched from his hand, and Henshaw repeated the words over and over to himself: “Weak—failing—hemorrhage—the fools! A little bleeding at the nose they call a hemorrhage!”
McTee broke in: “A good many doctors are apt to make a case seem more serious than it is. They get more credit that way for the cure, eh?”
“God bless you, lad! Aye, they’re a lot of damnable curs! Burning at sea—death by fire at sea! He was right! The old devil was right! Look, McTee! I’m safe on my ship; I’m rich; but still I’m burning to death in the middle of the ocean.”
He shook the Scotchman by his massive shoulder.
“Go get Sloan—bring him here!”
McTee rose.
“No! Don’t let me lay eyes on him—he brought me this! Go yourself and carry him a message to send. The doctors are letting her die; they think she has no money. Send them this message:
“Save Beatrice at all costs. Call in the greatest doctors. I will pay all bills ten times over.
“Quick! Why are you waiting here? You fool! Run! Minutes mean life or death to her!”
McTee hastened back to the wireless house in the after-part of the ship. To Sloan he gave the message, even exaggerating it somewhat. After it was sent, he said: “Look here, my boy, do you realize that it’s dangerous to bring the captain messages like that last one you carried to him?”
“Do I know it? I should say I do! Once the old boy jumped at me like a tiger because I carried in a bad report.”
“Could you make up a false message?”
“It’s against the law, sir.”
“It’s not against the law to keep a man from going crazy.”
“Crazy?”
“I mean what I say. Henshaw is balancing on the ragged edge of insanity. Mark my words! If the news comes of his granddaughter’s death, he’ll fall on the other side. Why can’t you give him some hope in the meantime? Suppose you work up something this afternoon like this: ‘Beatrice rallying rapidly. Doctor’s much more hopeful.’ What do you say?”
“Crazy!” repeated the wireless operator, fascinated. “If the old man loses his reason, we’re all in danger.”
“He’s on the verge of it. I know something of this subject. I’ve studied it a lot. A common sign is when one fancy occupies a man’s brain. Henshaw has two of them. One is what an old soothsayer told him: that he would die by fire at sea; the other is his love for this girl. Between the two, he’s in bad shape. Remember that he’s an old man.”
“You’re right, sir; and I’ll do it. It may not be legal, but we can’t stop for law in a case like this.”
McTee nodded and went back to Henshaw, whom he found walking the cabin with a step surprisingly elastic and quick.
“Go back and send another message,” he called. “I made a mistake. I didn’t send one that was strong enough. They may not understand. What I should have said was—”
&n
bsp; “I made it twice as strong as the way you put it,” said McTee; and he repeated his phrasing of the message with some exaggeration.
The lean hand of the captain wrung his.
“You’re a good lad, McTee—a fine fellow. Stand by me. You’d never guess how my brain is on fire; the old devil of a soothsayer was right. But that message you sent will bring those deadheaded doctors to life. Ah, McTee, if I were only there for a minute in spirit, I could restore her to life—yes, one minute!”
“Of course you could. But in the meantime, for a change of thought, suppose you finish that order you were about to write out and send to Campbell.”
“What order?”
“About Harrigan.”
“Who the devil is Harrigan?”
McTee drew a deep breath and answered quietly: “The man you ordered to work in the hole. Here’s the paper and your pen.”
He placed them in the hands of the captain, but the latter held them idly.
“It’s the frail ones who are carried off by the white plague. Am I right?”
“No, you’re wrong. The frail ones sometimes have a better chance than the husky people. Look at the number of athletes who are carried away by it!”
“God bless you, McTee!”
“The strength that counts is the strength of spirit, and this girl has your own fighting spirit.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes; I saw it in her eyes.”
Henshaw shook his head sadly.
“No; they’re the eyes of her grandmother, and she had no fighting spirit. I think I married her more for pity than for love. Her grandmother died by that same disease, McTee.”
The latter gave up the struggle and spent an hour soothing the excited old man. When he managed to escape, he went up and down the deck breathing deeply of the fresh air. For the moment Harrigan was safe, but it would not be long before he would force Henshaw to deliver the order. Into this reverie broke the voice of Jerry Hovey.
“Beg your pardon, Captain McTee.”
The Scotchman turned to the bos’n with the smile still softening his stern lips.
“Well?” he asked good-naturedly.
“Let me have half a dozen words, sir.”
“A thousand, bos’n. What is it?”
Now, Hovey remembered what Harrigan had said about coming straight to the point, and he appreciated the value of the advice. Particularly in speaking to a man like McTee, for he recognized in the Scotchman some of the same strong, blunt characteristics of Harrigan.
“Every man who’s sailed the South Seas knows Captain McTee,” he began.
“None of that, lad. If you know me, you also know that I’m called Black McTee—and for a reason.”
“More than that, sir, we know that whatever men say of you, your word has always been good.”
“Well?”
“I’m going to ask you to give me your word that what I have to say, if it doesn’t please you, will go out one ear as fast as it goes in the other.”
“You have my word.”
“And maybe your hand, sir?”
McTee, stirred by curiosity, shook hands.
Hovey began: “Some of us have sailed a long time and never got much in the pocket to show for it.”
“Yes, that’s true of me.”
“But there’s none of us would turn our backs on the long green?”
McTee grinned.
“Well, sir, I have a little plan. Suppose you knew an old man—a man so old, sir, that he was sure to die in a year or so. And suppose he had one heir—a girl who was about to die—”
“Mutiny, bos’n,” said McTee coldly.
But the eye of Hovey was fully as cold; he knew his man.
“Well?” he queried.
“Talk ahead. I’ve given you my word to keep quiet.”
“Suppose this old man had a lot of money. Would it be any crime—any great crime to slip a little of that long green into our pockets?”
Two pictures were in McTee’s mind—one of the safe piled full of gold, and the other of the half-crazed old skipper with his dying granddaughter. After all, it was only a matter of months before Henshaw would be dead, for certainly he would not long survive the death of Beatrice. Even a small portion of that hoard would enable him to leave the sea—to woo Kate as she must be wooed before he could win her. Golden would be the veil with which he could blind her eyes to the memory of Harrigan after he had removed the Irishman from his path.
“Very well, bos’n. I understand what you mean. I’ve seen the inside of that safe in the cabin. Now I come straight to the point. Why do you talk with me?”
“Because I need a man like you.”
“To lead the mutiny?”
“Tell me first, are you with us?”
“Who are us?”
“You’ll have to speak first.”
“I’m with you.”
“Now I’ll tell you. The whole forecastle is hungry for the end of White Henshaw. Your share of the money is whatever you want to make it. You can have all my part; what I want is the sight of Henshaw crawlin’ at our feet.”
“You’re a good deal of a man, Hovey. Henshaw has put you in his school, and now you’re about to graduate, eh? But why do you want me? What brought you to me?”
“I thought I didn’t need you a while ago; now I have to have somebody stronger than I am. I was the king of the bunch yesterday; but the last man we took into our plan proved to be stronger than I am.”
“Who?”
“Harrigan.”
McTee straightened slowly and his eyes brightened. Hovey went on: “Before he’d been with us ten minutes, the rest of the men in the forecastle were looking up to him. He has the reputation. He won it by facing you and Henshaw at the same time. Now the lads listen to me, but they keep their eyes on Harrigan. I know what that means. That’s why I come here and offer the leadership to you.”
McTee was thinking rapidly.
“A plan like this is fire, bos’n, and I have an idea I might burn my fingers unless you have enough of the crew with you. If you have Harrigan, it certainly means that you have a majority of the rest.”
Hovey grinned: “Aye, you know Harrigan.”
The insinuation made McTee hot, but he went on seriously: “If you could make me sure that you have Harrigan, I’d be one of you.”
“What proof do you want?”
“None will do except the word out of his own mouth. Listen! Along about four bells this afternoon I’ll find some way of sending Miss Malone out of her cabin. Then I’ll go in there and wait. Bring Harrigan close to that door at that tune and make him talk about the mutiny. Can you do it?”
“But why the room of the girl?”
“You’re stupid, Hovey. Because if you talked outside of the cabin where I sleep—that being the office of Henshaw—he’d hear you as well as I would.”
“Then I’ll bring him to the door of the girl’s cabin. At four bells?”
“Right.”
“After that we’ll talk over the details, sir?”
“We will. And keep away from me, Hovey. If Henshaw sees me talking with members of his crew, he might begin to think—and any of his thinking is dangerous for the other fellow.”
The bos’n touched his cap.
“Aye, aye, sir. You can begin hearin’ the chink of the money, and I begin to see White Henshaw eatin’ dirt. With Black McTee—excusin’ the name, sir—to lead us, there ain’t nothin’ can stop us.”
CHAPTER 24
He went off toward the forecastle hitching at his trousers and whistling an old English song of the Spanish Main. As for Black McTee, he remained staring after Hovey with a rising thought of perjury. The loot of the Heron was a deep temptation, and his pledged word to the bos’n was a strong bond, for as Hovey had said, the honor of Black McTee, in spite of his other failings, was respected throughout the South Seas. For one purpose, however, he would have sacrificed all hopes of plunder and a thousand plighted words, and that
purpose was the undoing of Harrigan in the eyes of Kate.
She had grown into a necessity to him. Though were she twice as beautiful, he would never have paid her the dangerous honor of a second glance under ordinary conditions, but their life together on the island and his rivalry with Harrigan for her sake had made her infinitely dear to him.
Seeing the opportunity to destroy all her respect for Harrigan, he schemed instantly to betray his word to Hovey. Like Harrigan earlier in the day, he had no purpose to reveal the planned mutiny at once. The Irishman waited because he did not know to whom he could confide the dangerous information; McTee delayed in the hope of nipping insurrection in the bud at the very instant when it was about to flower. It would be far more spectacular. Moreover, he saw in this a manner of enlisting Kate on his side.
Shortly before four bells in the afternoon he went to her cabin and knocked at the door. When she opened it to him, she stood with one hand upon the knob, blocking the way and waiting silently for an explanation of his coming. That quiet coldness banished from his mind the speech which he had prepared.
He said at last: “Kate, I want you to talk with me for a few minutes.”
She considered him seriously—without fear, but with such a deep distrust that he was startled. He had not dreamed that matters had progressed as far as that. At length she stepped back, and without a word beckoned him to come inside. He entered and then his eyes raised and met her glance with such a deep, still yearning that she was startled. No woman can see the revelation of a man’s love without being moved to the heart.
She said: “You are in trouble, Angus?”
The hunger of his eyes came full in her face.
“Aye, trouble.”
“And you have come to me—” she asked; and before she could finish her sentence, McTee broke in, pleadingly:
“For help.”
He saw her lips part, her eyes brighten; he knew it was his despair which was winning her.
“Tell me!” And she made a little gesture with both hands toward him.
“I have seen it for days. I have lost all hope of you, Kate.”
Her glance wandered slightly, and his hope increased.
“Because of Harrigan,” he said.
She was remembering what Harrigan had said: “How to stop McTee? Make yourself old and your skin yellow, and your hair gray, and take the spring out of your step.”
