McTee swallowed hard and commenced to edge toward the door.
"Farley is always hanging around—Farley, as I saw him on the beach that last time in his loincloth, with his pig eyes; sometimes he seems to be begging me to take pity on him; sometimes he seems to be laughing at me. And he's always got his hand outstretched. And Collins comes stroking his beard in the way he had, and he keeps his hand stretched out to me. What do they want? Alms! Alms! Alms! They want my soul for alms to take it below and burn it in the hellfire—the thin, blue flames!"
He stopped in the midst of his ravings and drew himself erect, a smile of infinite cruelty on his lips.
"Let them all come with their damned, empty palms! They're ghosts, and they cannot stop me so long as I follow the small voice that's inside of me. They can't stop me, and I'll win back to Beatrice. There I'm safe—safe! Her hands are thin and light and cool and as fragrant as flowers. She'll lay them on my eyelids and I'll go to sleep! And the ghosts will close their empty hands. Ha! McTee, d'you know aught of the power of a woman's love?"
He stepped close to the burly Scotchman.
"Keep off," growled McTee. "I want none of you! There's poison in your touch!"
He raised his hand like a guard, but two lean, thin hands, incredibly strong, closed on his wrists.
"A woman's love," went on the old buccaneer of the South Seas, "is stronger than armor plate to save the man she cares for. You can't see it; you could never see it! But I tell you there are times when the ghosts have come close to me, and then sometimes I've seen the shadows of thin, small hands come in front of me and push them back. The hands of Beatrice push them back, and they're helpless to harm me!"
CHAPTER 27
But McTee wrenched his arms away and fled out on the deck. He blundered into Jerry Hovey, who started back at sight of him.
"What's happened, sir?" asked the bos'n. "Been seein' ghosts?"
"Damn you," growled McTee, "I had a nap and a bad dream—a hell of a nightmare."
"You look it! You heard what Harrigan said? Does that sound as if I had enough backing?"
"If the rest of them are as strong for it as Harrigan, it does."
"As strong for it as Harrigan? Between you and me—just a whisper in your ear—I don't think Harrigan is half as strong for it as he talks. I don't trust him, somehow."
"No?"
"Look here," said the bos'n cautiously. "We hear there was once some trouble between you and Harrigan?"
"Well?"
"Would you waste much tune if somethin' was to happen to him—say in the middle of the night, silent and unexpected?"
"I would not! Take him by the foot and heave him into the sea. Very good idea, Hovey. Is he getting the eyes of the lads too much?"
Hovey fenced: "He's a landlubber, and he don't understand sea things.
He's better out of the way."
"How'll you do it?" asked McTee softly. "Speak out, Hovey. Would you try your own hand on Harrigan?"
"Not me! I know a better way. There's one that's in the mutiny who has a hand as strong as mine—almost—and a foot as silent as the paw of a cat. I'll give him the tip."
"And now for the details of the attack," said McTee, anxious not to lay too much stress upon the destruction of Harrigan.
"Here it is," answered Hovey, and entered into an elaborate description of all their plans. McTee listened with faraway eyes. He heard the words, but he was thinking of the death of Harrigan.
That invincible Irishman, after his talk with Hovey in front of the cabin of Kate, returned to the cool room of the chief engineer. The worthy Campbell, in wait for the ultimatum of White Henshaw, had been fortifying himself steadily with liquor, and by the middle of the afternoon he had reached a state in which he had no care for consequences; he would have defied all the powers upon earth and beyond it.
The next morning, as he went up to his usual task of scrubbing the bridge, Harrigan thought he perceived a possible reason why his persecution was being neglected. It was the picture of McTee and Kate Malone leaning at the rail. McTee was content. There was no doubt of that. He leaned above Kate and talked seriously down into her face. Harrigan was mightily tempted to turn about and climb to the bridge from the other side of the deck, but he made himself march on and begin whistling a tune.
McTee raised his head instantly, and, staring at the Irishman, he murmured a word to Kate, and she turned and regarded Harrigan with an almost painful curiosity. He was about to swagger past her when she shook off the detaining hand of McTee and ran to the Irishman.
"Dan," she said eagerly, and laid a hand on his arm.
"Come back, Kate," growled McTee. "You've promised me not to speak—"
"Did you promise him not to speak with me again?" broke in Harrigan.
"I only meant—" she began.
"It's little I care what you meant," said the Irishman coldly, and he shook off her hand. "Go play with McTee. I want none of ye! After I've slaved for ye an' saved ye from God knows what, ye dare to turn and make them eyes cold and distant when ye look at me? Ah-h, get back to McTee! I'm through with ye!"
She only insisted the more: "I will speak to you, Dan!"
"Come away, Kate," urged McTee, grinding his teeth. "Doesn't this prove what I told you?"
"I don't care what it proves," she said hotly. "Dan, I've been thinking grisly things of you. I simply can't believe them now that I look you in the face."
"Whisht!" said Harrigan, and his face was black. "Have you the right to doubt me?"
She answered sadly: "I have, Dan."
The Irishman turned slowly away and started up for the bridge without answer. As he went, he groaned beneath his breath: "Ochone! Ochone! She's heard!"
He could not dream how she knew of the mutiny, but if it was carried through, he was damned in her eyes forever. What she guessed McTee must know. What McTee knew must be familiar to White Henshaw, yet Henshaw could not know, for if he did, the ring-leaders would be instantly clapped into irons. Once or twice he looked down from his work to Kate and McTee. They still leaned at the rail, talking seriously.
And McTee was saying: "I have learned what I want to know. Every detail of the plot is in my hands. Now I am going to the cabin of White Henshaw and tell him everything. It's the simplest way. And you've started a suspicion in the mind of Harrigan. He'll spread the word to the rest of the mutineers, and they'll be on their watch against us."
She made a little gesture of appeal. "I couldn't help speaking to him, Angus. Suspecting him of such a thing is like—is like suspecting myself!"
"Let it go. It's done. Now I'm going up to see White Henshaw. The old man will be crazy when he hears it."
He found the captain giving some orders to Salvain, and waited until they were alone. Then he said: "There are about ten of us against the rest of the crew of the ship. Can we hold them in case of a mutiny?"
He had planned this laconic statement carefully, expecting to see
Henshaw turn pale and stammer in terror. Instead, the captain regarded
McTee with quietly contemplative eyes.
"So," he murmured, "you've heard of the mutiny?"
The tables were completely turned on the Scotchman. He gasped: "You have known all the time?"
"Certainly," said Henshaw; "I even know every word that Hovey said to you."
McTee turned crimson.
"I have eyes that see everything on the ship," went on Henshaw, as if he wished to cover the embarrassment of the Scotchman, "and I have ears which hear everything. I have lines of information tangled through the forecastle. I can almost guess what they are about to think, let alone what they will speak or do. The blockheads are always planning a mutiny, though I confess none of them have ever taken the proportions of this one. However, this will go the way of the rest."
"The way of the rest?" queried McTee almost stupidly.
"Yes. They plan to hold their action till we're close to the land. About that time I'll call up one or two of the ring-leaders and tell them just what they have planned to do. That'll make them think I have unknown means of meeting the mutiny. It will die."
McTee sat down, loosened his shirt at the throat, and gaped upon
Henshaw as a child might gape upon a magician.
"I don't blame you for taking a day to think over the temptation," smiled the old buccaneer. "The gold I showed you would have tempted any man. But I'm glad you came to me. I expected you last night. It took you a little longer to settle the details in your mind, eh?"
"Henshaw, I feel like a yellow dog!"
"Come! Come! You're a man after my own heart. You took the temptation in your hand—you looked it over—and then you turned away from it. Well, and suppose the mutiny should actually come to the breaking point; they would be right in thinking I have means of fighting them. I have no firearms on the ship; they know that. They don't know that I have these."
He went into the next room and returned carrying a heavy box. This he placed on the desk and took a small, heavy ball of metal from it.
"A bomb?" queried McTee.
"It is. The moment a group gathers, one of these tossed among them will end the mutiny the moment it begins."
McTee handed back the bomb in silence. There was something about this cold-blooded way of speaking of death which was not cruelty—it was something greater—it was an absolute disregard of life.
"Of course," said Henshaw, as he came back from depositing the box in the next room, "there are only half a dozen of those bombs, but that will be enough. The explosion of a couple of them would just about wreck the deck. However, the mutiny will never reach the point of action. I'll see to that. What always ties the hands of the crew is that it lacks real leaders. Hovey, for instance, will turn to water when I say three words about the mutiny to him."
"But Harrigan," said McTee quietly, "will not."
"The Irishman!" Henshaw muttered. "I forgot. McTee, I'm getting old!"
"Only careless," answered the other, "but it's a bad thing to be careless where Harrigan is concerned. A man like that, Henshaw, could lead your mutineers, and lead them well. Hovey told me that every one of the crew looks up to the Irishman."
"He's got to be crippled—or put out of the way," stated Henshaw calmly. "I was a fool. I forgot about Harrigan."
"It may be," said McTee, "that he'll be put out of the way tonight."
"McTee, I begin to see that you have brains."
The latter waved the sinister compliment aside.
"Suppose the little—er—experiment fails? Doesn't it occur to you that that message might be written out and sent to Campbell?"
The captain changed color, and his eyes shifted.
"I've told you—" he began.
"Nonsense," said McTee. "I'll write the thing, if you want, and all you'll have to do is to sign it."
"Would that make any difference?" asked Henshaw wistfully.
"Of course," said McTee. "Here we go. You've got to do something to tame Harrigan, captain, or there'll be the deuce to pay."
And as he spoke, he picked up pen and paper and began to write, Henshaw in the meantime walking to the door in an agony of apprehension as if he expected to see the dreaded figure of Sloan appear. McTee wrote:
_From Captain Henshaw to Chief Engineer Douglas Campbell
Sir:
On the receipt of this order, you will at once place Daniel Harrigan at work passing coal, beginning this day with a double shift, and continuing hereafter one shift a day.
(Signed)_
"Here you are, captain," he called, and Henshaw turned reluctantly from the door and sat down at the table.
"Bad luck's in it," he muttered, "but something has to be done— something has to be done!"
He wrote: "Captain Hensh—" but at this point the voice of Sloan spoke from the open door.
"A message, captain."
With a choked cry Henshaw whirled and rose, supporting himself against the edge of the table with both trembling hands. His accusing eyes were on McTee.
"Sloan!" he called in his hoarse whisper at last, but still his damning gaze held hard upon McTee.
The wireless operator advanced a step at a time into the room, placed the written message on the edge of the table, and then sprang back as if in mortal fear. Henshaw, still keeping his glance upon the Scotchman with a terrible earnestness, picked up the sheet of paper on which he had been signing his name, and tore it slowly, methodically, into small strips. As the last of the small fragments fluttered to the floor, his hand went out to the message Sloan had brought and drew it to his side. He waved his arm in a sweeping gesture that commanded the other two from his presence, and they slipped from the cabin without a word.
CHAPTER 28
"She's dead?" McTee asked softly when they stood on the promenade outside.
"She is. She must have been dying at about the time I brought in that other message—the one you told me to bring."
They avoided each other's eyes. Inside the cabin they heard a faint sound like paper crumpled up. Then they caught a moan from the room—a soft sound such as the wind makes when it hums around the corners of a tall building.
They were silent for a time, listening with painful intentness. Not another murmur came from the cabin. Sloan wiped his wet forehead and whispered shakily: "I wouldn't mind it so much if he'd curse and rave. But to sit like that, not making a sound—it ain't natural, Captain McTee."
"Hush, you fool," said McTee. "White Henshaw is alone with his dead.
And it's me that he blames for it. I brought him the bad luck."
Sloan shuddered.
"Then I wouldn't have your name for ten thousand dollars, sir."
"If there's bad luck," said McTee solemnly, for every sailor has some superstitious belief, "it's on the entire ship—on every one of the crew as well as on me. We'll have to pay for this—all of us—and pay high. We're apt to feel it before long. And I've got to go back to that cabin after a while!"
He spoke it as another man might say: "And an hour from now I have to face the firing squad."
But when he returned to the cabin, he heard no outburst of reproaches from White Henshaw. The door to Henshaw's bedroom was closed, and McTee could hear the captain stirring about in it, working at some nameless task over which he hummed continually, now and then breaking into little snatches of song. McTee was stupefied. He tried to explain to himself by imagining that Henshaw was one of those hard-headed men who live for the present and never waste time thinking of the past. He had made many plans for his granddaughter. Now she was dead, and he dismissed her from his mind.
This explanation might be the truth, but nevertheless the steady humming wore on McTee's nerves until finally he knocked on the door of the inner cabin. It was dusk by this time, and when Henshaw opened the door, he was carrying a lantern.
"You!" he muttered. "Well, captain?"
"You seem busy," said McTee uneasily, shifting under the steady light from the lantern. "I thought I might be able to help you."
"At the work I'm doing no man can help," answered Henshaw.
"What work?"
"I'm calculating profit and loss."
"On your cargo?"
"Cargo? Yes, yes! Profit and loss on this cargo."
And he broke into a harsh laugh. Obviously Henshaw was lying, yet the Scotchman went on with the conversation, eager to draw out some hidden meaning.
"It's an odd idea of yours, this, to bring a shipment of wheat from the south seas to Central America."
"Aye, the first time it's ever been done. This wheat came all the way from Australia and the United States, and now it's going back again. I'll tell you why. Wheat is scarce for export even in the States just now, so I'm taking a gambling chance on getting this to port before the first quantities come from the north. If I get in in time, I'll clean up—big."
"I understand," said McTee.
The captain raised his lantern again and shone it in the eyes of McTee.
"Do you understand?" he queried. "Do you?"
And he broke again into the harsh laughter. McTee started back with a scowl.
"What's the mystery, captain? What's the secret you're laughing about?"
Again Henshaw chuckled.
"You're a curious man, McTee. Well, well! What am I laughing about?
Money always makes me want to laugh, and now I'm laughing about money.
Do you understand that? No, you don't. Perhaps you will before long.
Patience, my friend!"
For some reason the blood of McTee grew cold and colder as he listened. His original suspicion of insanity grew weaker. He was being mocked, and the mad do not mock.
"So tonight is the last night of Harrigan, eh?" said Henshaw suddenly.
"In the name of God," said McTee, deeply shaken, "why do you speak of that? Yes, tonight he dies!"
"Alone!" said Henshaw in a changed voice. "He dies alone! It must be a grim thing to die alone at sea—to slip into the black water—to drink the salt—a little struggle—and then the light goes out. So!"
He shivered and folded his arms. He seemed to be embracing himself to find warmth.
"But to die in the middle of the ocean with many men around you," he went on, speaking half to himself, "that would not be so bad. What do you say, McTee?"
But McTee was not in a mood for speaking. He only stared, fascinated and dumb. Henshaw continued: "In the middle of night, with the engines thrumming, and the lights burning in every port, suppose a ship should put her nose under the surface and dive for the bottom! The men are singing in the forecastle, and suddenly their song goes out. The captain is in the wheelhouse. He is dreaming of his home town, maybe, when he sees the black waters rising over the prow. He thinks it is a dream and rubs his eyes. Before he can look again, the waves are upon him. There is no alarm; the wireless, perhaps, is broken; the boats, perhaps, are useless; and so the brave ship dives down to Davy Jones's locker with all on board, and the next minute the waves wash over the spot and rub out all memory of those who died there. Well, well, McTee, there's a way of dying that would please White Henshaw more than a death in a bed at a home port, with the landsharks sitting round your bed grinning and nodding out your minutes of life. Ha?"
But Black McTee, like a frightened child caught in a dark room, turned and fled in shameless fear into the deep night. Not till he was far aft did he stop in a quiet place to think of Harrigan dying alone, choking in the black water.
But Harrigan was far from fear. He lay on the deck above the forecastle, cradled by the swing of the bows. He shook away the lurking horror of the mutiny and gave himself up to peace.
In the midst of his sleep he dreamed of lying in a pitch-dark room and staring up at a brilliant point of light, like a dark lantern partially unshuttered. And suddenly Harrigan woke, and looking up, he caught a flashing point of light directly above his eyes. In another moment he was aware of the dark figure of a man crouched beside him, and then he knew that the light which glittered over his head was the shimmer of the stars against a steel blade.
The knife, as he stared, jerked up and then down with a sweep; Harrigan shot up his hand to meet the blow, and his grip fastened on a wrist. Wrenching on that wrist, he jerked himself to his knees, and the knife clattered on the deck, but at the same instant the other man—a dim figure which he could barely make out in the thick night—rushed on him, a shoulder struck against his chest, and he was thrown sprawling on the deck, sliding with the toss of the deck underneath the rail. He would have fallen overboard had he not kept his grip on that wrist, and as he reached the perilous edge, the other man jerked back to free his arm.
He succeeded, but the effort checked the slide of Harrigan's great body, and the next instant the Irishman was on his feet. He drove at the elusive figure with his balled fist, but the other ducked beneath the blow and fled down the ladder. Harrigan stopped only long enough to sweep up the fallen knife before he followed, but when he reached the edge of the deck, the waist of the ship extending back to the main cabin was empty. The man, whoever he was, must have fled into the forecastle.
Harrigan knew that if one of the sailors had dared to attack him, he must be suspected, and if he was suspected by one, that one would poison the minds of a dozen others in a short time. It was even possible that someone in authority had given orders for his death. With this in mind he climbed down the ladder and opened the door of the forecastle. He found the sailors sitting in a loose circle on the floor rolling battered dice out of a time-blackened leather box.
Harrigan sat down on the edge of his bunk, produced the captured knife, and commenced to sharpen it slowly, without ostentation, on the sole of his shoe. It was already of a razor keenness. It was a carving knife evidently stolen from the galley of the ship; it had been ground so often that the steel which remained was thin and narrow. A sharp blow with that knife would drive it to the handle through human flesh. As he passed it slowly back and forth across his shoe, Harrigan watched the faces of the others with a side glance.
One or two looked up frankly and nodded approval when they saw his occupation. The others, however, kept at their game, and of these the only one to pay no attention to his presence was Jerry Hovey. It convinced Harrigan at once that the bos'n had given orders for his death. It might have been the bos'n himself who had made the attempt just a moment before and had retreated to the forecastle.
On the other hand, the bos'n seemed to be breathing regularly, and the man with whom he had fought would not be able to keep his chest from heaving a little after that violent effort. It was more probable that one of the men who lay in their bunks had made the attempt, but it would be useless to examine them. Then his glance fell on Kamasura, the cabin boy.
The little, flat-faced Jap was a favorite with Jerry Hovey, and he was permitted to come forward whenever he pleased to the forecastle. He now sat on a box against a wall, watching the dice game with his slant eyes. Once or twice he met the searching scrutiny of Harrigan with a calm glance, and when it was repeated for the third time, nodded and grinned in the most friendly manner.
Harrigan was about to dismiss his suspicion from his mind, when he noticed that the Jap's arms were folded and the hands thrust up the opposite sleeves, concealing both wrists. Harrigan considered a moment, and then stooped over and commenced to unlace his boots. When the first one was unloosened, he kicked it off, but with such careless vigor that it skidded far across the floor and smashed against the box on which Kamasura sat. The little Oriental leaped to his feet and caught up the shoe. As he did so, Harrigan's watchful eye saw a bright-red spot on the Jap's wrist. That was where the grip of his fingers had lain when they struggled on the deck above.
"'Scuse me, Kamasura," he called cheerily, and raised his hand to betoken that the boot had come from him.
There was a flash of teeth and a glint of almond eyes as the Jap grinned in answer and the boot was tossed back. Harrigan caught it, but his eye was not on the shoe. He was staring covertly at Jerry Hovey, and now he saw the gray-blue eyes of the bos'n flash up and glance with a singular meaning at Kamasura. If he had heard every detail of the plot, Harrigan could not have understood more fully. Thereafter, every moment he spent on the Heron would be full of danger, but apparently Hovey had confided his hatred of the Irishman to Kamasura alone. If Hovey had spoken to the rest of the forecastle, those blunt sailors would have showed their feelings by some scowling side glance at Harrigan. It flashed across his mind that the reason Hovey wished him out of the way was because he feared him.
CHAPTER 29
He slipped onto his bunk and lay with his hands folded under his head, thinking; for between the danger from the leader of the mutiny and the danger from McTee and Henshaw, he was utterly confused. He made out the voices of the two gamblers, Hall and Cochrane.
"Three deuces to beat," said Hall.
"I'd beat three fives to get Van Roos," answered Cochrane.
Jan Van Roos was the second mate, a genial Dutchman with rosy cheeks and a hearty laugh for all occasions; but he was an excellent sailor and a strict disciplinarian. Therefore he had won the hatred of the crew. The entire group of mutineers had shaken dice to have the disposing of the mate in case he was captured alive. Now the dice rattled and clicked on the deck as Cochrane made his cast.
"Forty-three!" called Cochrane. "Now watch the fours."
He swept up the other three dice and made his second cast. Another four rolled upon the deck. He had won Van Roos, to dispose of him as he saw fit. Harrigan heard the rumble of Sam Hall's cursing.
"Easy, lad," said Cochrane soothingly. "We'll work on Van Roos together, and if we don't sweat every ounce of blubber out of his fat carcass, my name is not Garry."
There was a sharp knock at the door of the forecastle, and a moment later Shida, the other Japanese cabin boy, entered and came directly to the bunk of Harrigan.
He whispered in the ear of the Irishman: "Meester Harrigan, get up.
Cap'n McTee, he want."
"Where is he?" growled Harrigan.
"I show."
Harrigan slipped on his shoes and followed Shida aft, wondering. The little, quick-footed Jap brought him back of the wheelhouse and then disappeared. Leaning against the rail was McTee, unaware of their coming and peering out at the wake of the ship.
As the Heron's stern dipped to a trough of a wave that towered blackly into the night, the outlines of McTee's form were blurred, but the next moment he was tossed up against the very heart of the starry sky. With that peculiar mixture of fear and thrilling exultation which he always felt when he came into the presence of the captain, Harrigan drew close. Perhaps the sailor had chosen this heaving afterdeck as the place for their final death struggle, ending when one of them was hurled into the black ocean.
It was this thought which gave the ring to his voice when he called,
"I've come, McTee!"
The captain whirled, bracing himself against the rail with both hands, as though prepared to meet an attempt to thrust him overboard. Then— and Harrigan thought his ears deceived him as he listened—McTee said with a great, outgoing breath: "Thank God!"
He explained: "Come closer; talk soft! Harrigan, guard yourself tonight. There'll be an attempt at your life!"
"Another?" queried Harrigan.
"They've tackled you already?"
Harrigan took out the knife and waved it in the faint starlight.
"They did," he said jauntily, "and they left this behind them as a token."
"Listen," said McTee; "it's not for nothing that men call me Black, but all evening I've been remembering the time when we took hands in the trough of the sea. I've thought of that, Harrigan, and it made me weak inside—"
He paused, but Harrigan would not speak.
"Because I planned your death tonight, Dan."
"Angus, the steel ain't been sharpened that can kill me."
"Don't be too confident. Get every word I say. I'm washing my soul out for you. It's Hovey and the little Jap, Kamasura, that you'll have to guard against."
"I know 'em both."
"D'you mean to say—"
"No, I didn't make 'em confess, but I saw 'em lookin' at each other.
What made you hitch up with swine like them? Was it because of—her?"
"Yes."
"Then I forgive you for it. Angus, I got a sort of a desire to shake hands with you. There's nothin' but swine an' snakes aboard the Heron. I'd like to feel the grip of a man's hand."
They fumbled in the dark and then their hands met. They retained that grasp till the ship sank twice to the deep shadow of the trough and swung up again to the crest.
"There's no peace between us till she's out of the way," muttered
Harrigan at last. "What d'you say, Angus?"
"Harrigan, there are times when you're a poet. Strip!"
The Irishman was tearing off his shirt, when three crashing, rattling explosions sent a shudder through the Heron, and his arms dropped nervelessly.
"Where was it?" gasped Harrigan.
"Forward," answered McTee.
"Kate!" they cried in the same breath, and rushed for the main cabin.
CHAPTER 30
The decks were already thick with half-dressed sailors. Here and there lanterns gleamed, and what they showed was the three lifeboats of the Heron—two on one side of the cabin and one on the other—blown into matchwood. Only shapeless fragments and bundles of kindling wood dangled from the davits. Captain Henshaw, cool and calm in his white clothes, stood with folded arms examining the wreckage on one side.
The sailors from the forecastle went here and there, muttering, growling surlily; for a shrewd blow had been struck at their plan of mutiny, the last item of which was to abandon the Heron off a deserted coast and then row ashore in the lifeboats. Over their clamor and cursing broke two voices, one accusing in a deep bass and the other protesting innocence in a harsh treble. It was the third mate, Eric Borgson, who approached carrying little Kamasura under his arm like a bundle.
"Here's the little devil who done the work," he snarled, and flung
Kamasura at the feet of White Henshaw.
The Japanese are a brave people, but in that dreadful presence Kamasura made no effort to regain his feet, but remained on his knees, groveling and clinging to the hands of the captain, while he shrieked out an explanation. To remove his hands from those clinging fingers, Henshaw simply raised his foot, laid it against the breast of the Jap, and thrust out. The kick sent Kamasura rolling head over heels till he crashed against the rail. He lay partially stunned by the impact, and Eric Borgson, bellowing his enjoyment of this pleasant jest, collared poor Kamasura and dragged him back before White Henshaw. The Jap was now inarticulate with terror and pain.
"I was comin' down out of the wheelhouse," said the mate, "to get a bite of lunch—this bein' a night watch—when I seen this little yellow rat sneakin' down the deck like a thief. I didn't think nothin' much about it, supposin' he'd just lifted some chow, maybe, and then I heard them explosions. They knocked me off my pins, but I scrambled over an' collared this fellow. He showed he was guilty right off the bat by yellin' for mercy."
"Captain, captain!" screamed Kamasura. "Lies, lies-all lies. I go down the deck—"
The heavy hand of Eric Borgson smashed against Kamasura's mouth. The Jap sagged back, was jerked upright, and the mate's clubbed fist jarred home again.
"Lies, are they?" thundered Borgson. "I'll teach you to say that word to Eric Borgson, ha!"
And he struck the half-conscious Jap again full in the face. There was
a slight commotion in the back of the gathering crowd of sailors.
Harrigan was urging forward, but he was caught by the iron hands of
McTee and held back.
"For the love of Mike," moaned the Irishman softly, "let me at that swine of a mate!"
"Shut up!" cautioned McTee savagely, but in a whisper. "That's the Jap who tried to knife you!"
"I will—I'll shut up," sighed Harrigan, panting, "but ah-h, to get in punchin' distance of Borgson for one second!"
"What shall we do with him?" Borgson was asking.
"Captain!" begged the husky voice of Kamasura, fighting his way back to semi-consciousness.
"If he tries to speak again, smash his mouth in," said Henshaw without raising his voice. "Tonight put him in irons. I'll tend to him tomorrow. Go get the irons. Hovey, take Kamasura below."
"Aye, aye, sir," said Hovey, and caught the Jap by the arms behind.
That touch quieted Kamasura, and as he was led off, he began to whisper quickly.
The moment they were away from the crowd, Hovey said: "Say it slow—no, you don't have to beg me to help you. I'll do what I can. You know that. Now tell me what you saw."
"Cap'n McTee—behind the wireless house—holding the hand of Harrigan.
They were talkin' soft—like friends!"
"By God," muttered Hovey fiercely, "an' yet McTee told me he wanted Harrigan put out of the way. He's double-crossin' us. They're teamin' it together. What did they say?"
The Jap spat blood copiously before he could answer: "I could not hear."
"You ain't worth your salt," responded Hovey.
"I cannot help—I am crush—I am defeat. Do not let them bring me before Henshaw. To look at him—it puts the cold in my heart. I cannot speak. I shall die—I—"
"Keep your head up," said Hovey. "There's nothing I can say that'll help you—just now. Later on you'll be able to deal with Henshaw and Borgson just the way they dealt with you. Does that help any?"
"Ah-h," whispered the Jap and drew in his breath sharply with delight.
"I might start the boys—I might turn them loose on the ship," went on Hovey, "but the time ain't come yet for that. We're too far from the coast. Whatever happens, Kamasura, can you promise me to keep your face shut about the mutiny?"
"Yes-s."
"Even if they was to tie you up an' feed you the lash? Henshaw's equal to that."
Kamasura stammered, hesitated.
"Don't make no mistake," said Hovey fiercely, "because we'll be standin' close, some of us, an' the first tune you open your damned mouth, we'll bash your head in. Get me?"
The entrance of Eric Borgson made it impossible for the Jap to answer with words, but his eyes were eloquent with promise. Hovey started back for the forecastle; he had much to say to the sailors, and thereafter life on the Heron would be equally dangerous for both Harrigan and McTee.
The two, in the meantime, were making their way aft shoulder to shoulder. When they reached the stretch of deck behind the wireless house, McTee said: "Harrigan, what's it to be? Are you for fighting it out?"
"I'm with you in anything you say," retorted the dauntless Irishman, and then with a changed voice, "but I'm feelin' sort of sick inside, Angus. Did ye see that murtherin' dog smash the mouth of that Jap when he hadn't the strength to lift his head? Ah-h!"
"I'm sick, too," said McTee, "but not because of the Jap. It's something worse that bothers me."
"What?"
"It's the thought of White Henshaw, Dan. The brain of that old devil is going back on him. I think he loves death more than life. His memories of what he's done put him in hell every minute he lives."
"Go easy, McTee," said Harrigan. "D'you mean to say that Henshaw blew up those boats—an' his ship still in the middle of the Pacific?"
"I say nothing. All I know is that he talked damned queerly of how wonderful it would be if a ship in the middle of the sea put her nose under the waves and started for Davy Jones's locker. Yes, if she went down with all hands—dived for the bottom, in fact."
"What can we do?"
"I don't know, but I'm beginning to think that this ship—and our lives—would be safer in the hands of Hovey and his gang of cutthroats than they will be under White Henshaw. Queer things are going to happen on the Heron, Harrigan, mark my word."
"You think Henshaw blew up the boats so not one of the crew could escape?"
"It sounds too crazy to repeat."
"McTee!"
"Yes, I'm thinking of her, too."
"Between the mutiny and the crazy captain, Angus, it'll take both of us to pull her through."
"It will."
"Then gimme your hand once more, cap'n. We're in the trough of the sea once more, an' God knows when we'll reach dry land, but while we're on the Heron, we're brothers once more. For her sake I'll forget I hate you till we've got the honest ground under our feet once more."
"When the time comes," said McTee, "it'll be a wonderful fight."
"It will," agreed Harrigan fervently. "But first, McTee, we must let her know that we're standin' shoulder to shoulder to fight for her. Otherwise she won't give us her trust."
"You're right again. We'll go to her cabin now and tell her. But don't give her a hint of all that we fear. She already knows about the mutiny—and she knows about your part in it."
"You saw to that, McTee?" said Harrigan softly, as he pulled on his shirt.
"I did."
"Ah-h, Angus, that fight'll be even better than I was afther thinkin'."
And they went forward, walking again shoulder to shoulder. It was Harrigan who stood in front at her door and knocked. She opened it wide, but at sight of him started to slam it again. He blocked it with his foot.
"I've not come for my own sake," he said in a hard voice, "but the two of us have come together."
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, and she made out the towering form of McTee. At that she opened the door, glancing curiously from one to the other. The eyes of Harrigan went from her face to McTee, and his eyes flamed.
"Speak up, McTee," he said savagely. "Tell her you lied about me."
The Scotchman glowered upon him.
"I'll tell her what I've just found out," he answered coldly, and turned to Kate. "We were mistaken in what we thought when we overheard Hovey talking with Harrigan. Dan was simply playing a part with them— he was trying to learn their plans so as to use them against the mutineers when the time came."
There was a joyousness in her voice that cut McTee like a knife as she cried: "I knew! I knew! My instinct fought for you, Dan. I couldn't believe what I heard!"
"What you both heard?" he said bitterly. "I remember now. It was when I talked with Hovey in front of this cabin?"
"Ask no more questions," said McTee. "I'm seeing red now."
"Black! You see nothin' but black, ye swine! The soot in your soul is a stain in your eyes, McTee."
They turned toward the door, but she sprang before it and set her shoulders against the boards.
"Sit down—you too, Dan."
They obeyed slowly, McTee taking the edge of the bunk and Harrigan lowering his bulk to the little campstool, which groaned beneath his weight. She sat on a chair between them, while she looked from face to face.
"When you came in you were friends," she said, "and the only thing that could bring you to friendship was danger. There is danger. What?"
They exchanged glances of wonder at this shrewd interpretation.
"There is danger," said McTee at length, "and it's a danger which is something more than the mutiny, perhaps."
"I will tell it," said Harrigan.
He drew his chair closer to Kate and leaned over so that his face was near hers. She knew at once that he had forgotten all about the presence of McTee.
"Kate, I will not lie to ye, colleen"—here McTee set his teeth, but Harrigan went on—"I hate McTee, and it's for your sake that I hate him. And it's for your sake that I'm goin' to forget it for a while. There's throuble abroad—there's a cloud over this ship an' a curse on it—"
"What he means to say," broke in McTee, and then he became aware that she had not heard him speak, and he saw her smiling as she drank in the musical brogue of the Irishman.
"A curse on it, acushla, an' a promise av death that only two shtrong men can save you from—an' McTee is shtrong—so I've put away desire av killin' him till we get you safe an' sound to the shore, colleen, acushla; but ye must trust in us, an' follow us as ye love your life an' as I love ye!"
She straightened in her chair and turned her eyes toward McTee.
"And you cannot tell me what the danger is?"
"We cannot," he answered, "but you must pay no attention to anything that happens or to anything that is said to you by others. There are only two men on the Heron whom you can trust—and here we are. But there may be wild happenings on the Heron. Keep your courage and trust in Angus McTee and—"
"And Harrigan," broke in the Irishman quickly, with a glare at the captain.
She reached an impulsive hand to both of them, and they met the clasp, keeping, as it were, one eye upon her and one eye of hate upon each other.
She said, and her voice was low and musical with exultation: "I've no care what happens. I know we shall pull through safely. The three of us—Dan, Angus—we lived through the storm when the Mary Rogers sank, we lived on the island and survived, we reached the Heron in safety, and as long as we stay together, we'd be safe if the whole world were against us. Don't you feel it?"
She rose, and they stood up, towering above her, while she went on in a voice trembling somewhat: "But we must not be seen together if all these dangers threaten us; they must not know that the three of us are like one great heart."
They stepped back, and McTee pulled open the door, but still she retained their hands, and now she raised them both to her lips with a gesture so swift that they could not resist it.
"Both of you," she said; "God bless you both!"
CHAPTER 31
She released their hands; the door closed upon them; they stood facing each other on the deck in the dark.
"McTee," said Harrigan with deep emotion, "we're swine. We were about to fight before—her."
"Harrigan," said McTee, "we are swine. But when the time comes, we'll make up for it to her. If you hear a word in the forecastle, let me know about it; if I hear a word in the captain's cabin, I'll send for you. I may be wrong. Henshaw may be in his right senses. We'll see. In the meantime there are just the two of us, Harrigan, and against us there's a mutinous crew on one side and a mad captain, I think, on the other."
"There's no use in thinkin'," said Harrigan; "when the time comes, we'll fight. So long, Angus. When the trouble starts, our assemblin' point is Kate."
And he went forward to the forecastle. In the morning he discovered what he wanted to know. The men were aloof from him. He was conscious of eyes upon him whenever his back was turned, but while he faced them, no one would meet his glance.
In some way Hovey had learned that Harrigan was no longer to be trusted as a member of the mutineers, and he must have spread his tidings among the rest of the sailors. What he sensed in those covert glances, however, was not an immediate danger, but rather a waiting—an expectancy, and he deduced rightly that they would not attempt to lay a hand upon him until the mutiny was started. Then he would be reserved for some lingering death as a traitor doubly dyed.
While they were eating breakfast, Hovey came in late with the word that during the night someone had tampered with the dynamo, and the result was that the ship must complete her voyage without electric lights and—far more important—without the use of the wireless. Sam Hall started to blurt a comment on this, but a glance from Hovey silenced him. It was plain that the bos'n would risk no conversation from his blunt sailors while Harrigan was in earshot. The Irishman hurried through his breakfast and took his bucket and scrubbing brush toward the bridge, for he had many questions to ask McTee. He had scarcely left the forecastle when Hovey said to Garry Cochrane: "Watch the door. I've got something important to say."
Cochrane took up the designated position, and Hovey went on: "Lads, I've bad news, bad and good news together. The boats are gone—though who the devil destroyed them we don't know—and now the wireless is destroyed. The boats are a big loss, for now we'll have to rig up some sort of a raft to make shore when we beach the Heron. The busting of the wireless almost balances that loss. Now we're sure they can't slip out any quick wireless call that would bring a dozen ships after us. Bad news and good news together; and here's some more of the same kind.
"Henshaw has made up his mind to give Kamasura the whip. You know what that means? Well, I'll tell you. It means that after the first dozen strokes—as Borgson will lay them on—Kamasura will break down and tell everything we don't want him to say. Understand? With the cabin warned of what we're going to do, what chance would we have to take them? So we'll hang around close, lads, and the minute Kamasura opens his face to say the wrong thing, we'll rush 'em—are you with me? And go for two men first—Black McTee and Harrigan. With them out of the way we'll simply chew up the rest. Try to take the others alive, but don't waste any time with McTee and the Irishman. You can lay to it before you start that they'll never be taken till they're dead."
For some minutes he talked on, appointing to each man or group of men the work he would be expected to perform when Hovey gave the signal to attack, which would be one long blast on his whistle.
While they planned, Harrigan had reached the bridge and found McTee impatiently awaiting him.
"You're late," frowned the Scotchman. "What's happened in the forecastle?"
"Black looks on all sides, and no talk," said Harrigan.
"A falling barometer," nodded McTee, "and things are just as bad in the cabin. You've heard about the wireless breaking?"
"I have. What does it mean?"
"It may have been done by the mutineers. I doubt it. But that isn't all that's happened. This is a pretty cool day for the tropics."
Harrigan stared at him, baffled by the sudden change of the conversation.
"It is cool," he assented.
"But in the fireroom it's hotter than it's been at any time since the Heron started on this trip. The second assistant came up to complain to Henshaw, and I heard them.
"'There's something wrong with the air shafts,' he said to White
Henshaw.
"'Look here,' said Henshaw, 'I've had enough grumbling from the fireroom. Put a fan in the air shaft, and don't come up here again with any nonsense. D'you expect to find cool breezes in the South Seas? No, they're hot as fire—hot as fire—hot as fire!'
"He repeated those words three times over in a way that made my flesh creep, and then he laughed. Even the second saw that something was wrong. He took a long look at Henshaw, and then he went out with his head down."
"What did it all mean?" asked Harrigan.
"I don't know. I don't dare think what it means. But if my guess is right, then the Heron is a lot nearer hell than even you and I expected. Look, there goes Fritz Klopp, the first assistant engineer. I'll wager he's got another complaint about the heat in the fireroom."
They watched Klopp go into the captain's cabin, waited a moment, and then the door flew open and Klopp sprang out and fled aft like a man pursued. Henshaw came to the open door and peered after the engineer and laughed silently.
McTee muttered: "That's the way the devil laughs when he watches the damned souls pass by."
Here Henshaw glanced up and saw them watching him from the bridge. His face altered suddenly to a malevolence so terrible that both the men stepped back. Harrigan was trembling like a hysterical girl. He looked in the face of McTee and saw that the Scotchman had blanched. For a long moment they exchanged glances, and then McTee went down from the bridge and entered the cabin.
Henshaw was not there. He had evidently gone into the inner room, and McTee sat down to wait. The time had come for him to ask questions, and he was nerving himself for the ordeal. His plans were disturbed by a muffled sound from the inner cabin, a sound so unusual that McTee stiffened in his chair with horror and then rose slowly.
Tiptoe he stole across the floor and laid a hand lightly on the knob of the door of the captain's private room. It turned easily without any creak, and the door opened a few inches. There sat Henshaw with his back to McTee, leaning over a table. Gold pieces were spilled loosely across the surface of the wood—possibly the contents of three or four of those small canvas bags—and Henshaw leaned forward with his forehead resting upon the glittering yellow coins and one hand clutching a quantity of them. His other hand held a photograph of the dead Beatrice. The sound continued. It was the low sobbing of the captain, a hoarse and horrible murmur.
McTee closed the door and went back onto the deck, for he suddenly understood the futility of questions. Harrigan, in the meantime, had waited for the return of McTee, and when the latter did not come, the Irishman lingered on the bridge for an hour or more, pottering about with his brush in a pretense of finishing up a perfect job. His attention was drawn then by a gathering crowd and bustle in the waist of the ship between the wheelhouse and the forecastle. The entire crew of the Heron seemed to be mustering, with the exception of those needed to keep the engines running. They stood in a circle, leaving the cover of the hatch clear.
He hurried down to witness the ceremony, and as he reached the waist, he saw Henshaw take up his position with folded arms in the very center of the hatch. A moment later Kamasura was led up by Eric Borgson and Jan Van Roos.
The two mates, under the direction of Henshaw, lashed the Japanese face down upon the hatch, pulling his arms and legs taut with ropes that fastened to the bolts on all sides of the hatch cover.
When he was securely tied, Kamasura was stripped to the waist, and then Harrigan saw Borgson, grinning evilly, step up with a long whip in his hand. It was a blacksnake, heavily loaded and stiff at the butt and tapering gradually to a slender, supple, snakelike body, with a thin, sinister lash. Borgson whirled the whip around his head to get its balance. Henshaw stepped back, still with folded arms.
"This fellow Kamasura," he announced to the crew, "has blown up the boats of the Heron. There's no doubt of it. Borgson caught him almost in the act. I could do worse things than this to Kamasura, but I've decided to flog him until he confesses."
There was not a word of answer from the crew; they waited, hushed, ominous. A whisper sounded in the ear of Harrigan, who stood with gritting teeth and clenched hands.
It was McTee who murmured: "Hold onto yourself, Harrigan. Our time hasn't come."
"I'll hold onto myself all right," said Harrigan, "but look at the crew."
In fact, there was something more deadly than any snarling of a crowd in this unnatural silence of many men. Also they were not looking at Kamasura; they were staring, every man, at the bos'n, who stood with his whistle hanging from a cord around his neck.
"Begin!" said Henshaw.
The blacksnake whistled around the head of the third mate and there was a long scream from Kamasura—but the blacksnake only cracked loudly in the air. Borgson laughed with a hideous delight. Harrigan, sickly white, bowed his head. Again the blacksnake whirled and again it cracked, but this time on naked flesh, and the scream of Kamasura was like the cut of a knife.
Again, again, and again the blacksnake fell, and now Kamasura twisted his head toward the captain and cried in a voice made thin by pain and rage at once: "I confess! Captain, let me speak!"
At a gesture from Henshaw, the third mate reluctantly stepped back, drawing the lash of the blacksnake slowly through his hands with a caressing touch. Van Roos, the color completely gone from his usually blooming cheeks, cut the ropes, and Kamasura rose, facing the captain. He extended a naked, trembling arm toward Hovey.
"Mutiny!" he yelled. "The whole crew—the whole forecastle—mutiny,
Cap'n Henshaw! I know—"
The piercing whistle of the bos'n cut into his speech, and the crew rolled forward over the hatch with a single shout that might have come from one throat except for its shrill volume.
CHAPTER 32
"It's come!" cried Harrigan to McTee. "Kate!"
But even as he whirled, two sailors leaped on him from behind and bore him to the deck. At the same time a gun flashed in the hand of Henshaw, and he fired twice into the onrushing host. Two men crumpled up on deck and the others gave back a little—they were glad to turn to the easier prey of Van Roos and Borgson, who were instantly overpowered, while Henshaw, with brandished revolver, made his way toward the main cabin.
The second and smaller rush of the mutineers had been toward Harrigan and McTee, where the two men stood together. Harrigan, taken from behind, went down at once and then grappled with his assailants before they could use their knives. McTee stood over the struggling three and smote right and left among the mutineers. A knife caught his shirt at the shoulder and ripped it to the waist; a club whizzed past his head, but his great fists smashed home on face and head and sent men staggering and sprawling back. The confusion gave him an instant of freedom in a small circle, and he leaned and caught one of Harrigan's assailants by the heels. It was a little man, a withered fellow scarcely five feet tall and literally dried up by the tropic heat. He was wrenched from his hold, heaved into the air, and then whirled about the head of McTee like a mighty bludgeon. As the sailors rushed again, that living club smashed against them and flung them back. Even to the herculean strength of McTee it was a prodigious feat, but the danger gave him for the moment the power of a madman. Twice he swung the shrieking little sailor, and twice that body smashed back the attack, while Harrigan leaped to his feet in time to knock down a man who sprang at McTee from behind with a brandished knife.
All this had occurred in the space of half a dozen seconds; the first rush of the mutineers was spent; before they could lunge forward again, McTee flung the half-lifeless body of his human weapon into the midst of the crowd and, turning with Harrigan at his shoulder, they sprang up the ladder to the main cabin door.
Hovey was screaming commands over the din; the crowd rushed after the fugitives.
Harrigan shouted at McTee: "Get Kate! Take her aft to the wireless house! I'll hold 'em here a minute and then join you!"
McTee nodded and tore down the deck toward Kate's cabin, while Harrigan pulled the knife of Kamasura from his trousers and thrust it in the face of the first man up the ladder. The blade slashed him from nose to cheekbone, and he toppled back with a yell, bearing with him in the fall the two men immediately below. Harrigan glanced across to the other ladder on the farther side of the deck, and saw Kate and McTee running aft. He turned and raced after them.
The wireless house was their one hope. There the sea would be at their backs, and the only approach for the mutineers in their rush would be up the ladders reaching from the deck below; the main cabin, on the other hand, had half a dozen places from which it could be assailed. This had been instantly seen by the other officers, and when Harrigan reached the ladder to the deck at the other end of the cabin, he saw Salvain standing in front of the wireless house, Kate and McTee in the act of climbing the steps from the waist, and White Henshaw, with his hair blowing, following hard in their tracks.
Harrigan reached the waist at a leap, and in another moment joined the survivors in the shelter of the wireless house—Kate, McTee, Henshaw, Salvain, and Sloan, a party of six. They were safe for the moment, for the mutineers would certainly never venture an attack against the wheelhouse, where they could be beaten from the ladders by the defendants, but they were safe without food, without water.
Then, as they stared hopelessly across the waist, they saw three men led across the rear promenade of the main cabin. Their hands were tied behind them, and they were kicked forward by the mutineers, first Jacob Van Roos—they could note his pallor even at that distance—then Eric Borgson, scowling and defiant, and dragged along by the men of the forecastle; and last came Douglas Campbell, surrounded by the firemen. Finally, Jerry Hovey shouted across the waist:
"Black McTee! Oh, Black McTee!"
The Scotchman raised his hand as a token that he heard.
"You're done for, McTee, you and all the rest. You're bound to starve, and when you're weak, we'll come and carry you forward, and you'll die by inches as the other three are going to die; but if you want to live—you and the girl and all of you, give us White Henshaw to treat as he ought to be treated. Give us him, an' the rest of you'll be saved. If you won't trust us, we'll bring you food and water enough to keep you alive till we reach shore. Give us Henshaw and—"
He broke off, for he heard the harsh, ringing laughter of White
Henshaw. The captain held up his revolver.
"No use, Hovey," he called. "I fired five shots, but I saved one for myself. Ha, ha, ha!" And his mirthless cackle broke out once more.
"Look!" cried Kate, and pointed at the captain.
Down the left side of Henshaw, bright against the white of his coat, was a rapidly growing stain of red. They could see the small slit in the cloth where a knife thrust had entered his side, but the old buccaneer would give no sign of his injury. He waved his gun toward Kate as she advanced an impulsive step toward him.
"Keep back!" he commanded. "Woman and man, I trust none of you. Give me distance or I'll use this bullet on the first of you and give what's left of me to the sea."
"By the Lord, he's wounded!" cried Harrigan. "Steady, old heart of oak, you've nothing to fear from us. Hovey! Oh-h, Hovey, we'll see you damned before we give up the captain!"
The bos'n, choking with his fury, shook his clenched fist at them and disappeared into the cabin.
"Now lie down," said McTee to the captain, "and we'll fix you up. Are you badly hurt?"
"Enough to finish me," said Henshaw calmly, "but keep off! I'll have none of you! None of your tricks!"
His old body was trembling with the pain of his wound, but the hand which held the gun leveled on McTee was as steady as a rock. Kate pushed McTee aside and turned a glance of scorn on the others.
"You'd let him die among you—for fear of an old man and his wretched revolver?"
She faced Henshaw.
"Go into the wireless house, Captain Henshaw, and I will go in alone with you. If you don't trust me, you can keep your revolver at my breast while I dress your wound—but see!—you will bleed to death in a short time!"
He laughed again, saying: "Girl, there's nothing between heaven and hell that can make me die by anything but fire—fire at sea—blue fire."
She whitened at sight of his frenzied, yellow face, and then she saw Harrigan slipping around to take the captain from the rear. He saw the shadow of the Irishman just too late, and whirled with a curse at the same time that Harrigan's iron hand seized the gun. For an instant he struggled, but those mighty arms gathered him as easily as a woman lifts a stubborn child, and he was carried into the wireless house and placed on Sloan's bunk. As soon as he discovered that he was helpless in their hands, he ceased struggling and lay without a motion while they tore away his coat and shirt and Kate started to dress the deep, ugly wound.
She had scarcely finished when a shout, or rather a scream, from fifty throats brought them running out of the wireless house. Again and again that cry was repeated from the main cabin, and they could not tell whether it was despair or agony that inspired it.
Neither of these emotions caused it. All that time Hovey had been kneeling in front of the captain's safe working at the combination, for he had seen Henshaw open it several times and thought that he could imitate the captain's motions. But he failed. Around him packed the sailors in both cabins, a serried mass of intent faces and burning eyes. But at last Hovey stood up and announced his failure—he could not work the combination. Then came that yell which those in the wireless house heard, a cry of mingled rage and disappointment. Gold in untold quantities was here just within their reach—and yet just beyond it. A few inches of steel kept the gold safe.
Men beat it with their bare hands in a senseless fury, till Garry
Cochrane slipped through the dense mass of sailors.
"I know something about locks. What do I get, lads, if I open this one?"
"Five shares!"
"Ten shares!"
"Ten shares!" nodded Cochrane. "Good! Now keep still. I need quiet."
They were mute; not a breath was drawn; they scarcely dared move their eyes lest he should be disturbed. Cochrane touched the lock lightly and then rubbed his fingertips vigorously back and forth on the carpet— anything to stimulate those fine nerves which are as valuable to some criminals as eyes are to normal people.
With ear pressed close to the combination, he turned it slowly, by delicate degrees, waiting for the telltale click. They saw him set his teeth and grow eager as a hound on a scent of blood; they saw the fingers move rapidly and nervously, and then came a click which was audible through the entire room, and the door of the safe swung open. Still no one stirred, no one breathed. He took out a small canvas bag, he untied the top, he spilled the contents out, and then they saw bright gold, gold which inspires, and gold which destroys, gold the tempter and the murderer.
A wild scramble followed. They swept the gold up in handfuls and tossed it into the air, laughing like madmen as the light gleamed on the yellow surfaces. And at length when they were wearied of touching it and caressing it, Hovey apportioned the spoils: to Cochrane, by common assent, the ten shares, a fortune; to Sam Hall, Kyle, and Flint, two shares each, for they had been leaders in the fight; to himself ten shares, also by universal voice, and to each of the others, forty in all, his portion.
There was no fighting or complaint over the division of the spoils. What difference did a few hundred pieces here or there matter? Gold in floods, gold in oceans, was before them, and each man gathered his own share close.
But where there is gold there is death. One of the firemen said in the ear of Hovey: "The second assistant—Fritz Klopp—he is dying."
It was upon Klopp that they depended for the running of the Heron. Hovey merely laughed: "Carry him in here. He'll come to life when he sees this!"