Harrigan

They climbed the rail.  Plainly Harrigan had made them delay too long, for now they had not time to swim beyond the reach of the swirl that would form when the ship went down.  The Mary Rogers lurched to her grave as they sprang from the rail.  A wave caught them and washed them beyond the grip of the whirlpool; another wave swung them back, and the waters sucked them down.  Such was the force of that downward pull that it seemed to Harrigan as if a weight were attached to either foot.  He drew a great, gasping breath before his head went under and then struck out with all his might.

When his lungs seemed bursting with the labor, he whirled to the surface again and drew another gasping breath.  The storm had torn a rift in the clouds and through it looked the moon as if some god were peering through the curtain of mist to watch the havoc he was working.  By this light Harrigan saw that he was being drawn down in a narrowing circle.  Straight before him loomed a black fragment of the wreckage.  He tried to swing to one side, but the current of the water bore him on.  He received a heavy blow on the head and his senses went out like a snuffed light.

When consciousness returned, there was a sharp pain in both head and right shoulder, for it was on his shoulder that McTee had fastened his grip.  The captain sprawled on a great timber, clutching it with both legs and one arm.  With the free hand he held Harrigan.  All this the Irishman saw by the haggard moonlight.  Then they were pitched high up on the crest of a wave.  As Harrigan grappled the timber with arms and legs, it turned over and over and then pitched down through empty space.  The wind had literally cut away the top of the wave.  He went down, submerged, and then rose to a giddy height again.  As he caught a great breath of air, he saw that McTee was no longer on the timber.

A shout reached him, the sound being cut off in the middle by the noise of the wind and waves.  He saw McTee a dozen feet away, swimming furiously.  He came almost close enough to touch the timber with his hands, and then a twist of the wave separated them.  Harrigan worked down the timber until he reached the end of the stanchion which was nearest Black McTee.  All that time the captain was struggling, but could not draw closer.  The wood was drifting before the wind faster than he could swim.

When he reached the end of the timber, Harrigan wound his long arms tightly around it and let his legs draw out on the water.  McTee, seeing the purpose of the maneuver, redoubled his efforts.  On a wave crest the storm swept Harrigan still farther away; then they dropped into a hollow and instantly he felt a mighty grip fall on his ankle.  They pitched up again with the surge of a wave so sharp and sudden that what with his own weight and the tugging burden of McTee behind him, Harrigan felt as if his arms would be torn from their sockets.  He kept his hold by a mighty effort, and the tremendous grip of McTee held fast on his ankle until they dropped once more into a hollow.  Then the captain jerked himself hand over hand up the body of Harrigan until he reached the timber.  They lay panting and exhausted on the stanchion, embracing it with arms and legs.

Sometimes the wind sent the timber with its human freight lunging through a towering wave; and several times the force of the storm caught them and whirled them over and over.  When they rose to a wave crest, they struggled bitterly for life; when they fell into the trough, they drew long breaths and freshened their holds.

Save once when Harrigan reached out his hand and set it upon that of Black McTee.  The captain met the grip, and by the wild moonlight they stared into each other’s faces.  That handshake almost cost them their lives, for the next moment the full breath of the storm caught them and wrenched furiously at their bodies.  Yet neither of them regretted the handclasp, for all its cost.  If they died now, it would be as brothers.  They had at least escaped from the greatest of all horrors, a lonely death.

It seemed as if the storm acknowledged the strength of their determination.  It fell away as suddenly as it had risen.  A heavy ground swell still ran, but without the wind to roughen the surface and sharpen the crests, the big timber rode safely through the sea.  The storm clouds were dropping back in a widening circle beneath the moon when, as they heaved up on the top of a wave, Harrigan suddenly pointed straight ahead and shouted hoarsely.  On the horizon squatted a black shadow, darker than any cloud.

All night they watched the shadow grow, and when the morning came and the tropic dawn stepped suddenly up from the east, the light glinted on the unmistakable green of verdure.

With the help of the steady wind they drifted slowly closer and closer to the island.  By noon they abandoned the timber and started swimming, but the submerged beach went out far more gradually than they had expected.  The last hundred yards they walked arm in arm, floundering through the gentle surf.

Then they stumbled up the beach, reeling with weariness, and sprawled out in the shade of a palm tree.  They were asleep almost before they struck the sand.

It was late afternoon when they woke, ravenously hungry, their throats burning with thirst.  For food McTee climbed a coconut palm and knocked down some of the fruit.  They split the gourds open on a rock, drank the liquor, and ate heartily of the meat.  That quelled their appetites, but the sweet liquor only partially appeased their thirst, and they started to search the island for a spring.  First they went to the center of the place to a small hill, and from the top of this they surveyed their domain.  The island was not more than a thousand yards in width and three or four miles in length.  Nowhere was there any sign of even a hut.

“Well?” queried Harrigan, seeing McTee frown.

“We can live here,” explained the captain, “but God knows how long it will be before we sight a ship.  Our only hope is for some tramp freighter that’s trying to find a short cut through the reefs.  Even if we sight a tramp, how’ll we signal her?”

“With a fire.”

“Aye, if one passes at night.  We could stack up wood on the top of this hill.  The island isn’t charted.  If a skipper saw a light, he might take a chance and send a boat.  But how could we kindle a fire?”

They went slowly down the hill, their heads bent.  At the base, as if placed in their path to cheer them in this moment of gloom, they found a spring.  It ran a dozen feet and disappeared into a crevice.  They cupped the water in their hands and drank long and deep.  When they stood up again, McTee dropped a hand on Harrigan’s shoulder.  He said:  “You’ve cause enough for hating me.”

“Pal,” said Harrigan, “you’re nine parts devil, but the part of you that’s a man makes up for all the rest.”

McTee brooded:  “Now we’re standing on the rim of the world, and we’ve got to be brother to each other.  But what if we get off the island—­there’s small chance of it, but what if we should?  Would we remember then how we took hands in the trough of the sea?”

Harrigan raised his hand.

“So help me God—­” he began.

“Wait!” broke in McTee.  “Don’t say it.  Suppose we get off the island, and when we reach port find one thing which we both want.  What then?”

Harrigan remembered a word from the Bible.

“I’ll never covet one of your belongin’s, McTee, an’ I’ll never cross your wishes.”

“Your hair is red, Harrigan, and mine is black; your eye is blue and mine is black.  We were made to want the same thing in different ways.  I’ve never met my mate before.  I can stand it here on the rim of the world—­but in the world itself—­what then, Harrigan?”

They stepped apart, and the glance of the black eye crossed that of the cold blue.

“Ah-h, McTee, are ye dark inside and out?  Is the black av your eye the same as the soot in your heart?”

“Harrigan, you were born to fight and forget; I was born to fight and remember.  Well, I take no oath, but here’s my hand.  It’s better than the oath of most men.”

“A strange fist,” grinned Harrigan; “soft in the palm and hard over the knuckles—­like mine.”

They went down the hill toward the beach, Harrigan singing and McTee silent, with downward head.  On the beach they started for some rocks which shelved out into the water, for it was possible that they might find some sort of shellfish on the rocks below the surface of the water.  Before they reached the place, however, McTee stopped and pointed out across the waves.  Some object tossed slowly up and down a short distance from the beach.

“From the wreck,” said McTee.  “I didn’t think it would drift quite as fast as this.”

They waded out to examine; the water was not over their waists when they reached it.  They found a whole section from the side of the wheelhouse, the timbers intact.

On it lay Kate Malone, unconscious.

Manifestly she never could have kept on the big fragment during the night of the storm had it not been for a piece of stout twine with which she had tied her left wrist to a projecting bolt.  She had wrapped the cord many times, but despite this it had worn away her skin and sunk deep in the flesh of her arm.  Half her clothes were torn away as she had been thrown about on the boards.  Whether from exhaustion or the pain of her cut wrist, she had fainted and evidently lain in this position for several hours; one side of her face was burned pink by the heat of the sun.

They dragged the float in, and McTee knelt beside the girl and pressed an ear against her breast.

“Living!” he announced.  “Now we’re three on the rim of the world.”

“Which makes a crowd,” grinned Harrigan.