Harrigan Part 35

"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 G.o.d," 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 s.h.i.+vered 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+mmer 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p; 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 pa.s.sed 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 j.a.p 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 j.a.p'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 j.a.p'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 j.a.p 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 carca.s.s, my name is not Garry."

There was a sharp knock at the door of the forecastle, and a moment later s.h.i.+da, the other j.a.panese 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 s.h.i.+da aft, wondering. The little, quick-footed j.a.p 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 s.h.i.+p.

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 G.o.d!"

He explained: "Come closer; talk soft! Harrigan, guard yourself tonight. There'll be an attempt at your life!"

"Another?" queried Harrigan.