The Max Brand Megapack. Max Brand
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,