by Max Brand
CHAPTER 38
Meanwhile the shouts of the mutineers rang louder and louder as their rafts edged in toward the land, so the three turned again and made directly inland. A hundred yards from the edge of the water they were in a dense jungle such as only exists in a Central American swamp region, but they waded and splashed on, and clambered over rotten stumps, slick with wet moss, and stepped on fragments of wood that crumbled under their feet. And all the time they kept the girl between them, lifting her clear of the noisome water as much as possible.
The shouting of the mutineers, however, urged them on, and from the sound of the voices there was no doubt that Hovey and his men were combing the marsh for the fugitives. Torches had been made by the sailors, and behind them, now and then, they caught a glimpse of a winking eye of light. This drove them on, and just when the shouts of the mutineers began to die away, the marsh ended as abruptly as it had begun, and they started to climb a slope where the thicket changed to an almost open wood. The rise was not long, for after some hours of weary trudging, they reached a road.
Down this they straggled with stumbling feet. They had not spoken for nearly two hours, as though they wished to save even the breath of speech for some trial which might still await them. Kate was half unconscious with fatigue, and McTee on her left and Harrigan on her right carried most of her weight.
In this manner they came in sight of a light which developed into a low-roofed, broad house with a hospitable veranda stretching about it. They made directly for it, traversing a level field until they came to the door. McTee supported Kate while Harrigan knocked. There was silence within the house, and then a whisper, a stir, the padding of a slippered foot, and the door was jerked open. A tall man with a narrow, pointed beard appeared. He held a lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other; for those were troubled times in that republic. The light fell full on the haggard face of Kate, and the man started back.
“Enter, my children,” he said in Spanish, and tossing his weapon onto a little hall table, he held out his hand to them.
With a great voice he brought his family and servants about them in a few seconds. To a wide-eyed girl with a frightened voice, he gave the care of Kate, and the two went off together. The master of the house himself attended to the needs of Harrigan and McTee.
There were few questions asked. This was a question of dire need, and the Spanish-American loves to show his hospitality. Talking was for the morning. In the meantime his guests would require what? Perhaps sleep? Perhaps a bath first? They answered him with one voice, for they both spoke a little Spanish, picked up in their wanderings. Sleep!
The next day they woke about noon to find clothes laid out for them, the immaculate white clothes which the tropics require. They were led to a high-ceilinged bathroom cool with glazed, white bricks which lined it, where the two servants poured over them bucket after bucket of cold water, and the grime of the voyage and the labors in the fireroom and the mighty weariness of their muscles disappeared little by little in slow degrees. Then a shave, then the white clothes, and they were ready for presentation to Senor Jose, Barrydos y Maria y Leon and his family.
And here was a time of many words indeed. It was McTee who told the story of the wreck, and even with his broken Spanish the tale was so vivid that Senor Jose was forced to rise and walk up and down the room, calling out upon a hundred various saints. In the end it was clear in his eyes that he had to deal with two heroes. As such they could have lived with him as honored guests forever.
Then Kate came into the room with the daughter of the house. She wore a green dress of some light material which fluttered into folds at every move. The Spaniard straightened up from his chair. The two big men followed suit, staring wide-eyed upon her. It seemed as if some miracle had been worked in her, for they looked in vain for any traces of her helpless weariness of the night before.
There was a color in her cheeks and her eyes were bright and quiet. To Senor Jose Barrydos y Maria y Leon she gave both her hands, and he bowed over them and kissed them both. His courtliness made Harrigan and McTee exchange a glance, perhaps of envy and perhaps of disquiet, for she accepted this profound courtesy with an ease as if she had been accustomed to nothing else all her life.
But what a smile there was for each of them afterward! It left them speechless, so that they glowered upon each other and were glad of the soft flow of Senor Jose’s words as he led them in to the breakfast table.
And when the meal had progressed a little and some of the edge of the novelty of the situation and story had worn away, the Spaniard said: “But is it not true? Strange news floats in the air this week.”
“What news?” asked Harrigan. “Our wireless was out of commission for days.”
“True! Then you must learn from me?”
He drew a breath and stiffened in his chair, then with a gesture of apology and a smile he added: “Why should I hunt for pompous words? I can tell you in one phrase: the world is at war, gentlemen!”
They merely gaped upon him.
“German troops have entered Belgium; France, England, and Russia are at war with Germany and Austria!”
He waited for the astonishment to die away in their eyes.
Kate was shaking her head. “It is impossible,” she said. “There may be a disturbance, but the world is past the time of great wars. Men are now too civilized, and—”
Here she stopped, for her eyes fell on the faces of Harrigan and McTee. Civilized? No; she had seen enough to know that civilization strikes no deeper in human nature than clothes go to change the man.
“Civilized?” Don Jose had taken her up. “Ah, madam, already wild tales reach us of the Germans in Belgium.”
“But there was a treaty,” she cried, “and the greatest nations in the world have guaranteed the neutrality of Belgium. Germany herself—”
“True!” said Jose; “but it is because of the violation of Belgian neutrality, among other things, that England has entered the war, it is said.”
“Ah-h!” said Harrigan, lapsing suddenly from Spanish into his Irish brogue. “Thrue for ye, man! John Bull will take the Kaiser by the throat. In time of peace, why, to hell with England, say I, like all good Irishmen; but in time av war-r, it’s shoulder to shoulder, John Bull an’ Paddy, say I, an’ we’ll lick the wor-r-rld!”
And McTee broke in savagely. “You forget the Scotch. Without the Scotch, England and Ireland—what could they do? Nothing!”
“Could they not?” said Harrigan, with rising temper. “I tell ye, ye black Highlander, that wan Irishman—”
“Hush,” said Kate earnestly; for the Spaniard was staring at them in amaze. “It is a world war, and no time for jealousy. England—Scotland —Ireland—and America, too, in time—we will all be fighting for one purpose. And when the last test comes, the United States—”
She stopped with a gesture of pride, and Harrigan said with deep feeling: “Aye, they’re a hard lot, the Yankees. But as for the Scotch,” he went on in a murmur which only McTee could hear—“as for the Scotch, I wouldn’t be wipin’ my feet on ’em, when it comes to the fightin’. D’ye hear me, McTee?”
“And understand,” said McTee, smiling broadly, so that none of the rest might understand; “our time is close at hand, Harrigan. We’re on dry land.”
“We are—thank God,” answered Harrigan, “but play the game, McTee, till the girl is cared for.”
In the meantime Senor Jose had explained to Kate the nearness of the city—El Ciudad Grande—for she had been asking many urgent questions. The upshot of their conversation was that their host offered to take them immediately into the town, where they could find accommodation at the one hotel—if they refused his further hospitality. So in half an hour Senor Jose’s carriage of state was harnessed and the four journeyed into El Ciudad Grande.
Senor Jose went with them to explain to the hotel owner that these were his guests—his dear friends—his friends of many years’ standing—in fact, his relatives in close b
lood. In short, he recommended the party to the special care of the hotelkeeper. Business called the hospitable Spaniard away. He refused to accept any consideration for the clothes which he donated to the party, and McTee jingled a handful of Henshaw’s gold in vain. Senor Jose must depart, but he would return the next day. So the three stood alone together at last. Harrigan was the first to speak.
“I’ve an engagement. I’m afther havin’ some important business on hand, Kate, colleen, so I’ll be steppin’ out.” And he turned to go.
“Wait,” she called. “I know what your engagements are when the Irish comes so thick on your tongue, Dan. You were about to have an engagement also, Angus?”
McTee glowered on Harrigan for having so clumsily betrayed them.
“You are like children,” she said softly, “and you let me read your minds.”
She bowed her head in long thought.
Then: “Didn’t we pass the sign of the British consul down the street over that little building?”
“Yes,” said McTee, wondering, and again she was lost in thought.
Then she raised her head and stepped close to them with that smile, half whimsical and half sad.
“I’m going to ask you to let me be alone for a time—for a long time. It will be sunset in five hours. Will you let me have that long to do some hard thinking? And will you promise me during that time that you will not fly at each other’s throats the moment you are out of my sight? For what I will have to say at sunset I know will make a great deal of difference in your attitude to each other.”
“I’ll promise,” said Harrigan suddenly. “I’ve waited so long—I can stand five hours more.”
“I’ll promise,” said McTee; but he scowled upon the floor.
CHAPTER 39
They left her and walked from the hotel. At the door Harrigan turned fiercely upon the Scotchman.
“Do what ye please for the five hours, McTee, but give me the room I need for breathin’. D’ye hear? Otherwise I’ll be forgettin’ me promises.”
“Do I hear ye?” answered McTee, snarling. “Aye, growl while you may. I’ll stop that throat of yours for good—tonight.”
He turned on his heel, and the two men separated. Harrigan struck with a long swing out over a road which led into the rolling fields near the little town. He walked rapidly, and his thoughts kept pace, for he was counting his chances to win Kate as a miser counts his hoard of gold. Two pictures weighed large in his mind. One was of Kate at ease in the home of the Spaniard. Such ease would never be his; she came from another social world—a higher sphere. The second picture was of McTee climbing down from the wireless house and calmly assuming command of the mutineers in the crisis. Such a maneuver would never have occurred to the Irishman, and it was only through that maneuver that the ship had been brought to shore, for nothing save the iron will of McTee could have directed the mutineers.
When the sun hung low, he turned and strode back toward the village, and despair trailed him like his shadow.
He began to see clearly now what he had always feared. She loved McTee—McTee, who spoke clear, pure English, when he chose, and who could talk of many things. She loved McTee, but she dared not avow that love for fear of infuriating Harrigan and thereby risking the life of the Scotchman. It grew plainer and plainer. With the thought of Kate came another, far different, and yet blending one with another. When he reached the village, it was still a short time before sunset. He went straight to the British consulate and entered, for he had reached the solution of his puzzle.
“My name’s Harrigan,” he said to the little man with the sideburns and the studious eyes, “and I’ve come to know if the old country has sent for volunteers. I want to go over.”
“The old country,” said the consul, “has called for volunteers, and I have discovered a means of sending our boys across the water; but”—and here he examined Harrigan shrewdly—“but it’s an easy thing to take an Irish name. How am I to know you’re not a German, my friend? I’ve never seen you before.”
Harrigan swelled.
“A German? Me?” he muttered, and then, his head tilted back: “Ye little wan-eyed, lantern-jawed, flat-headed block, is it me—is it Harrigan ye call a German? Shtep out from behind the desk an’ let me see av you’re a man!”
Strangely enough, the consul did not seem irritated by this outburst. He was, in fact, smiling. Then his hand went out to the Irishman.
“Mr. Harrigan,” he said, “I’m honored by knowing you.”
Harrigan stared and accepted the hand with caution; there was still battle in his eyes.
“And can you send me over?” he asked doubtfully.
“I can. As I said before, we’ve raised a small fund for just this purpose.”
He drew out a piece of paper and commenced taking down the particulars of Harrigan’s name and birth and other details. Then a short typewritten note signed by the consul ended the interview. He gave Harrigan directions about how he could reach a shipping agent on the eastern coast, handed over the note, and the Irishman stepped out of the little office already on his way to the world war. He took no pleasure in his resolution, but wandered slowly back toward the hotel with downward head. He would speak a curt farewell and step out of the lives of the two. It would be very simple unless McTee showed some exultation, but if he did—Here Harrigan refused to think further.
It was well after sunset when he crossed the veranda, and at the door he found McTee striding up and down.
“Harrigan,” said McTee.
“Well?”, growled Harrigan.
“Stand over here close to me, and keep your face shut while I’m speaking. It won’t take me long.”
The words were insulting enough, but the voice which spoke them was sadly subdued.
“Listen,” said McTee. “What I’ve got to say is harder for me to do than anything I’ve ever done in my life. So don’t make me repeat anything. Harrigan, I’ve tried to beat you by fair means or foul ever since we met—ever since you saved my hide in the Ivilei district of Honolulu. I’ve tried to get you down, and I’ve failed. I fought you”—here he ground his teeth in agony—“and you beat me.”
“It was the bucking of the deck that beat you,” put in Harrigan.
“Shut up till I’m through or I’ll wring your neck and break your back! I’ve failed to down you, Harrigan. You beat me on the Mary Rogers. You made a fool of me on the island. And on the Heron—”
He paused again, breathing hard.
“On the Heron, it was you who brought us food and water when we were dying. And afterward, when Henshaw died, I jumped out before the mutineers and took command of them because I thought I could win back in Kate’s mind any ground which I’d lost before. I paraded the deck before her eyes; I gave commands; I was the man of the hour; I was driving the Heron to the shore in spite of the fire.”
“You were,” admitted Harrigan sadly. “It was a great work you did, McTee. It was that which won her—”
“But even when I was in command, you proved yourself the better man, Harrigan.”
The Irishman leaned back against the wall, gasping, weak with astonishment.
McTee went on: “I paraded the deck; I made a play to make her admire me, and for a while I succeeded, until the time came when you were carried up to the deck too weak to keep the men at work in the fireroom. Ah, Harrigan, that was a great moment to me. I said to Kate: ‘Harrigan has done well, but of course he can’t control men—his mind is too simple.’”
“Did you say that?” murmured Harrigan, and hatred made his voice soft, almost reverent.
“I did, and I went on: ‘I suppose I’ll have to go down there and drive the lads back to their work.’ So down I went, but you know what happened. They wouldn’t work for me. They stood around looking stupid at me and left me alone in the fireroom, and I had to come back on deck, in the sight of Kate, and rouse you out of your sleep and beg you to go back and try to make the lads keep at their work. And you got up to your knees
, struggling to get back your consciousness! And you staggered to your feet, and you called to the firemen who lay senseless and sick on the deck around you—sick for sleep—and when they heard you call, they got up, groaning, and they reeled after you back to their work in the fireroom, and some of them dragged themselves along on their hands and knees. Oh, God!”
He struck his clenched fist across his eyes.
“And all the time I was watching the awe and the wonder come up like a fire in the eyes of Kate, while she looked after you.”
Harrigan watched him with the same stupid amazement.
“Harrigan,” said McTee at last, “you’ve won her. When I walked out by myself today, I saw that I was the only obstacle between her and her happiness. She doesn’t dare tell you she loves you, for fear that I’ll try to kill you. So I’ve decided to step out from between—I have stepped out! I’m going back to Scotland and get into the war. If I have fighting enough, I can forget the girl, maybe, and you! I’ve talked to the British consul already, and he’s given me a note that will take me over the water. So, Harrigan, I’ve merely come to say good-by to you— and you can say good-by for me to Kate.”
“Wait,” said Harrigan. “There are a good many kinds of fools, but a Scotch fool is the worst of all. Take that paper out of your pocket and tear it up. Ah-h, McTee, ye blind man! Can’t ye see that gir-rl’s been eatin’ out her hear-rt for the love av ye, damn your eyes? Can’t ye see that the only thing that keeps her from throwin’ her ar-rms around your neck is the fear of Harrigan? Look!”
He pulled out the note which the consul had given him.
“I’ve got the same thing you have. I’m going to go over the water. I tell you, I’ve seen her eyes whin she looked at ye, McTee, an’ that’s how I know she loves ye. Tear up your paper! A blight on ye! May ye have long life and make the girl happy—an’ rot in hell after!”
“By God,” said McTee, “we’ve both been thinking the same thing at the same time. And maybe we’re both wrong. Kate said she had something to say to us. Let’s see her first and hear her speak.”
