Harrigan

In the morning there was the usual task of scrubbing down the bridge.  The suds soaked through the bandages at once and burned his hands like fire.  He tore away the cloths and kept at his task, for he knew that if he refused to continue, he became by that act of disobedience a mutineer.

The fourth day was a long nightmare, but at the end of it Harrigan was still at his post.  That night the pain kept him awake.  For forty-eight hours he had not closed his eyes.  The next morning, as he prepared his bucket of suds and looked down at his blood-caked hands, the thought of surrender rose strongly for the first time.  Two things fought against it:  his fierce pride and a certain awe which he had noted as it grew from day to day in the eyes of the rest of the crew.  They were following the silent battle between the great Irishman and the captain with a profound, an almost uncanny interest.

As he scrubbed the bridge that morning, McTee, as always, stood staring out across the bows, impassive, self-contained as a general overlooking a field of battle.  And the temptation to surrender swelled up in the throat of Harrigan like the desire for speech in a child.  He kept his teeth hard together and prayed for endurance.  Only five days, and it might be weeks before they made a port.  Even then the captain might put him in irons rather than risk his escape.

“Harrigan,” said McTee suddenly.  “Don’t keep it up.  You’re bound to break.  Speak those words now that I told you to say and you’re a free man.”

Harrigan looked up and the words formed at the base of his tongue.  Harrigan looked down and saw his crimson hands.  The words fell back like dust on his heart.

“Take you for my master an’ swear to forget what you’ve done?” he said, and his voice was hardly more than a whisper.  “McTee, if I promised you that I’d perjure blacker ‘n hell an’ kill you someday when your back was turned.  As it is, I’ll kill you while we’re standin’ face to face.”

McTee laughed, low, deep, and his eyes were half closed as if he heard pleasant music.  Harrigan grinned up at him.

“I’ll kill you with my bare hands.  There’s no gun or knife could do justice to what’s inside of me.”

His head tilted back and his whisper went thick like that of a drunkard:  “Ah-h, McTee, look at the hands, look at the hands!  They’re red now for a sign av the blood av ye that’ll someday be on ’em!”

And he picked up his bucket and brush and went down the deck.  The laugh of McTee followed him.

Having framed the wish in words, it was never absent from Harrigan’s mind now.  It made that day easier for him.  He stopped singing.  He needed all his brain energy to think of how he should kill McTee.

It was this hungry desire which sustained him during the days which followed.  The rest of the crew began to sense the mighty emotion which consumed Harrigan.  When they saw both him and McTee on the deck, their eyes traveled from one to the other making comparisons, for they felt that these men would one day meet hand to hand.  They could not stay apart any more than the iron can keep from the magnet.

Finally Harrigan knew that they were nearing the end of their long journey.  The port was only a few days distant, for they were far in the south seas and they began to pass islands, and sometimes caught sight of green patches of water.  Those were the coral reefs, the terror of all navigators, for they grow and change from year to year.  To a light-draught ship like the Mary Rogers these seas were comparatively safe, but not altogether.  Even small sailing craft had come to grief in those regions.

Yet the islands, the reefs, the keen sun, the soft winds, the singing of the sailors, all these things came dimly to Harrigan, for he knew that his powers of resistance were almost worn away.  His face was a mask of tragedy, and his body was as lean as a starved wolf in winter.  His will to live, his will to hate, alone remained.

Each morning it was harder for him to leave the bridge without speaking those words to the captain.  He rehearsed them every day and vowed they would never pass his lips.  And every day he knew that his vow was weaker.  When he was about to give in, he chanced to see McTee and Kate Malone laughing together on the promenade.

It was McTee who saw Harrigan first and pointed him out to Kate.  She leaned against the rail and peered down at him, shuddering at the sight of his drawn face and shadowed eyes.  Then she turned with a little shrug of repulsion.

McTee must have made some humorous comment, for she turned to glance down at Harrigan again and this time she laughed.  Blind rage made the blood of the Irishman hot.  That gave him his last strength, but even this ran out.  Finally he knew that the next day was his last, and when that day came, he counted the hours.  They passed heavy-footed, as time goes for one condemned to die.  And then he sat cross-legged on his bunk and waited.

The giant Negro came, bringing word that the bos’n wanted him to scrub down the bridge.  He remained with his head bowed, unhearing.  The bos’n himself came, cursing.  He called to Harrigan, and getting no answer shook him by the shoulder.  He put his hand under Harrigan’s chin and raised the listless head.  It rolled heavily back and the dull eyes stared up at him.

“God!” said the bos’n, and started back.

The head remained where he had placed it, the eyes staring straight up at the ceiling.

“God!” whispered the bos’n again, and ran from the forecastle.

In time—­it seemed hours—­Harrigan heard many voices approaching.  McTee’s bass was not among them, but he knew that McTee was coming, and Harrigan wondered whether he would have the strength to refuse to obey and accept the fate of the mutineer; or whether terror would overwhelm him and he would drop to his knees and beg for mercy.  He had once seen a sight as horrible.  The voices swept closer.  McTee was bringing all the available crew to watch the surrender, and Harrigan prayed with all his soul to a nameless deity for strength.

Something stopped in the Irishman.  It was not his heart, but something as vital.  The very movement of the earth seemed to be suspended when the great form blocked the door to the forecastle and the ringing voice called:  “Harrigan!”

At the summons Harrigan’s jaw fell loosely like that of an exhausted distance-runner, and long-suppressed words grew achingly large in his throat.

“I’ve had enough!” he groaned.

“Harrigan!” thundered the captain, and Harrigan knew that his attempted speech had been merely a silent wish.

“God help me!” he whispered hoarsely, and in response to that brief prayer a warm pulse of strength flooded through him.  He sprang to his feet.

“I refuse to work!” he cried, and this time the sound echoed back against his ears.

There was a long pause.

“Mutiny!” said McTee at last, and his voice was harsh with the knowledge of his failure.  “Bring him outside in the open.  I’ll deal with him!”

He retreated from the door, but before any of the sailors could go in to fulfill the order, Harrigan walked of his own accord out onto the deck.  The wind on his face was sweet and keen; the vapors blew from eyes and brain.  He was himself again, weaker, but himself.  He saw the circle of wondering, awe-stricken faces; he saw McTee standing with folded arms.