Harrigan

“Mutiny on the high seas,” the captain was saying, “is as bad as murder on dry land.  I could swing you by the neck from the mast for this, Harrigan, and every court would uphold me.  Or I can throw you into the irons and leave your trial until we touch port.  But—­stand back!”

At the wave of his hand the circle spread.  McTee stepped close to Harrigan.

“I could do all that I’ve said, but why should I waste you on a prison when there’s a chance that I can use for myself?  Harrigan, will you stand up to me, man to man, and fist to fist, fighting fair and square without advantage, and then if I thrash you, will you be my man?  If I beat you, will you swear to follow me, to do my bidding?  Harrigan, if I have you to work for me—­I’ll be king of the south seas!”

“Man to man—­fair and square?” repeated Harrigan vaguely.  “I’m weak.  You’ve had me in hell an’ sweated me thin, McTee.  If I was my old self, I’d jump at the chance.”

“Then it’s irons for you and ten years for mutiny when we reach port.”

“Ah-h, damn your heart!”

“But if I beat you, you’ll be a lord of men, Harrigan, with only one king over you—­McTee!  You’ll live on the fat of the land and the plunder of the high seas if you serve McTee.”

“What oath could I swear that you’d believe?”

“Your hand in mind for a pledge—­I ask no more.”

He held out his hand.  The lean, strong fingers fascinated Harrigan.

“I’d rather take your throat than your hand, McTee—­an’ mebbe I will—­an’ mebbe I will!”

He caught the hand in his own cracked, stained, black palm.  The smile of McTee was like the smile of Satan when he watched Adam driven from the Eden.

“Strip to the waist,” he said, and turned on the crew.

“You know me, lads.  I’ve tried to break Harrigan, but I’ve only bent him, and now he’s going to stand up to me man to man, and if he wins, he’s free to do as he likes and never lift a hand till we reach port.  Aye, lick your chops, you dogs.  There’s none of you had the heart to try what Harrigan is going to try.”

If they did not actually lick their chops, there was hunger in their eyes and a strange wistfulness as they watched Harrigan strip off his shirt, but when they saw the wasted arms, lean, with the muscles defined and corded as if by famine, their faces went blank again.  For they glanced in turn at the vast torso of McTee.  When he moved his arms, his smooth shoulders rippled in significant spots—­the spots where the driving muscles lay.  But Harrigan saw nothing save the throat of which he had dreamed.

“This is to the finish?” said McTee.

“Aye.”

“And no quarter?”

Harrigan grinned, and slipped out to the middle of the deck.  Both of them kicked off their shoes.  Even in their bare feet it would be difficult to keep upright, for the Mary Rogers was rollicking through a choppy sea.  Harrigan sensed the crew standing in a loose circle with the hunger of the wolf pack in winter stamped in their eyes.

McTee stood with his feet braced strongly, his hands poised.  But Harrigan stole about him with a gliding, unequal step.  He did not seem preparing to strike with his hands, which hung low, but rather like one who would leap at the throat with his teeth.  The ship heaved and Harrigan sprang and his fists cracked—­one, two.  He leaped out again under the captain’s clubbed hands.  Two spots of red glowed on McTee’s ribs and the wolf pack moistened their lips.

“Come again, Harrigan, for I’ve smelled the meat, not tasted it.”

“It tastes red—­like this.”

And feinting at McTee’s body, he suddenly straightened and smashed both hands against the captain’s mouth.  McTee’s head jarred back under the impact.  The wolf pack murmured.  The captain made a long step, waited until Harrigan had leaped back to the side of the deck to avoid the plunge, and then, as the deck heaved up to give added impetus to his lunge, he rushed.  The angle of the deck kept the Irishman from taking advantage of his agility.  He could not escape.  One pile-driver hand cracked against his forehead—­another thudded on his ribs.  He leaped through a shower of blows and clinched.

He was crushed against the rail.  He was shaken by a quick succession of short arm punches.  But anything was preferable to another of those long, driving blows.  He clung until his head cleared.  Then he shook himself loose and dropped, as if dazed, to one knee.  McTee’s bellow of triumph filled his ears.  The captain bore down on him with outstretched hands to grapple at his throat, but at the right instant Harrigan rose and lurched out with stiff arm.  The punch drove home to the face with a shock that jarred Harrigan to his feet and jerked McTee back as if drawn by a hand.  Before he recovered his balance, Harrigan planted half a dozen punches, but though they shook the captain, they did not send him down, and Harrigan groaned.

McTee bellowed again.  It was not pain.  It was not mere rage.  It was a battle cry, and with it he rushed Harrigan.  They raged back and forth across the deck, and the wolf pack drew close, cursing beneath their breath.  They had looked for a quick end to the struggle, but now they saw that the fighters were mated.  The greater strength was McTee’s; the greater purpose was Harrigan’s.  McTee fought to crush and conquer; Harrigan fought to kill.

The blows of the captain flung Harrigan here and there, yet he came back to meet the attack, slinking with sure, catlike steps.  The heel and pitch of the deck sometimes staggered the captain, but Harrigan seemed to know beforehand what would happen, and he leaped in at every opening with blows that cut the skin.

His own flesh was bruised.  He bled from mouth and nose, but what was any other pain compared with the torture of his clenched fists?  It made his arms numb to the elbow and sent currents of fire through his veins.  His eyes kept on the thick throat of McTee.  Though he was knocked reeling and half senseless, his stare never changed, and the wolf pack, with their heads jutting forward with eagerness watched, waited.  The “Ha!” of McTee rang with the strength of five throats.  The “Wah-h!” of Harrigan purred like a furious panther’s snarl.

Then as the frenzy left Harrigan and the numbness departed from his arms, he knew that he was growing weaker and weaker.  In McTee’s eyes he saw the growing light of victory, the confidence.  His own wild hunger for blood grew apace with his desperation.  He flung himself forward in a last effort.

A ponderous fist cracked home between his eyes, fairly lifting him from his feet and hurling him against the base of the wheelhouse.  Then a forearm shot under his shoulder and a hand fastened on the back of his neck in an incomplete half-Nelson.  As McTee applied the pressure, Harrigan felt his vertebral column give under the tremendous strain.  He struggled furiously but could not break the grip.  Far away, like the storm wind in the forest, he heard the moan of the wolf pack.

“Give in!  Give in!” panted McTee.

“Ah-h!” snarled Harrigan.

He felt the deck swing and jerked his legs high in the air.  He could not have broken that grip of his own strength, but the sway of the deck gave his movement a mighty leverage.  The hand slipped from his neck, scraping skin away, as if a red-hot iron had been drawn across the flesh.  But he was half loosed, and that twist of his body sent them both rolling one over the other to the scuppers of the ship—­and it was McTee who crashed against the rail, receiving the blow on the back of his head.  His eyes went dull; the red hands of Harrigan fastened on his throat.

“God!” screamed McTee, and gripped Harrigan’s wrists, but the Irishman heaved him up and beat his head against the deck.

McTee’s jaws fell open, and a bloody froth bubbled to his lips; his eyes thrust out hideously.

“Ah-h!” snarled Harrigan, and shifted his grip lower, his thumbs digging relentlessly into the great throat.  This time the giant limbs of the captain relaxed as if in sleep.  Then through the fierce singing in his ears the Irishman heard a yell.  He turned his head.  The wolf pack saw their prey pulled down at last.  They ran now to join the kill, not men, but raging devils.  Harrigan sprang to his feet, catching up a marlinspike, and whirled it above his head.

“Back!” he shouted.

They shrank back, growling one to the other savagely, irresolute.  There came a moan at Harrigan’s feet.  He leaned over and lifted the bulk of the captain’s inert body.  As if through a haze he saw the chief engineer and the two mates running toward him and caught the glitter of a revolver in the hands of the first officer.  The Irishman’s battered lips stretched to a shapeless grin.

“Help me to the captain’s cabin,” he said.  “He’s afther bein’ sick.”