Harrigan

“There’s times for truth an’ there’s times for lying,” murmured Harrigan, as he stowed away the bucket and brush and started down for the fireroom, “an’ this was one of the times for lyin’.  He’s sick for the love of her, an’ he’s hatin’ the thought of Harrigan.”

So he was humming a rollicking tune when he reached the fireroom.  It was stifling hot, to be sure, but it was twice as large as that of the Mary Rogers.  The firemen were all glistening with sweat.  One of them, larger than the rest and with a bristling, shoebrush mustache like a sign of authority, said to the newcomer:  “You’re Harrigan?”

He nodded.

“The chief wants to see you, boss, before you start swingin’ the shovel.”

“Where’s the chief’s cabin?”

“Take him up, Alex,” directed the big fireman, and Harrigan followed one of the men up the narrow ladder and then aft.  He was grateful for this light respite from the heat of the hole, but his joy faded when the man opened a door and he stood at last before the chief, Douglas Campbell, who looked up at the burly Irishman in a long silence.

The scion of the ancient and glorious clan of the Campbells had fallen far indeed.  His face was a brilliant red, and the nose, comically swollen at the end, was crossed with many blue veins.  Like Milton’s Satan, however, he retained some traces of his original brightness.  Harrigan knew at once that the chief engineer was fully worthy of joining those rulers of the south seas and harriers of weaker men, McTee and White Henshaw.

“Stand straight and look me in the eye,” said Campbell, and in his voice was a slight “bur-r-r” of the Scotch accent.

Harrigan jerked back his shoulders and stood like a soldier at attention.

“A drinkin’ man,” he was saying to himself, “may be hard an’ fallen low, but he’s sure to have a heart.”

“So you’re the mutineer, my fine buck?”

Harrigan hesitated, and this seemed to infuriate Campbell, who banged a brawny fist on a table and thundered:  “Answer me, or I’ll skin your worthless carcass!”

The cold, blue eyes of Harrigan did not falter.  They studied the face of the Campbell as a fighter gauges his opponent.

“If I say ‘yes,’” he responded at length, “it’s as good as puttin’ myself in chains; if I say ‘no,’ you’ll be thinkin’ I’m givin’ in, you an’ McTee, damn his eyes!”

Campbell grew still redder.

“You damn him, do you?  McTee is Scotch; he’s a gentleman too good to be named by swine!”

The irrepressible Harrigan replied:  “He’s enough to make swine speak!”

Amazement and then a gleam of laughter shone in the eyes of the chief engineer.  He was seized, apparently, by a fit of violent coughing and had to turn away, hiding his face with his hand.  When he faced the Irishman again, his jaw was set hard, but his eyes were moist.

“Look me in the eye, laddie.  Men say a good many things about me; they call me a slave driver and worse.  Why?  Because when I say ‘move,’ my men have to jump.  I’ve asked you a question, and I’m going to get an answer.  Are you a mutineer or not?”

“I will not pleasure McTee by sayin’ I’m not!”

The ponderous hand rose over the table, but it was checked before it fell.

“What the devil has McTee to do with this?” he bellowed.

“He’s the one that sent me here.”  Harrigan was thinking fast as he went on:  “And you’re going to keep me here for the sake of McTee.”

Campbell changed from red to purple and exploded:  “I’ll keep no man here to please another; not White Henshaw himself.  He rules on deck, and I rule below.  D’you hear?  Tell me you’re a liar!  Speak up!”

“You’re a liar,” said Harrigan instantly.

The engineer’s mouth opened and closed twice while he stared at Harrigan.

“Get out!” he shouted, springing to his feet.  “I’ll have you boxed up and sweated; I’ll have you pounded to a pulp!  Wait!  Stay here!  I’ll bring in some men!”

Harrigan was desperate.  He knew that what he had said was equivalent to a mutiny.  He threw caution to the wind.  Campbell had rung a bell.

“Bring your men an’ be damned!” he answered; and now his head tilted back and he set his shoulders to the wall.  “I’ll be afther lickin’ your whole crew!  A man do ye call yourself?  Ah-h, ye’re not fit to be lickin’ the boots ay a man!  Slave driver?  No, ye’re an overseer, an’ Henshaw kicks you an’ you pass the kick along.  But lay a hand on Harrigan, an’ he’ll tear the rotten head off your shoulders!”

The door flew open, and the second assistant engineer, a burly man, with two or three others, appeared at the entrance, drawn by the furious clamor of the bell.

“What—­” began the second assistant, and then stopped as he caught sight of Harrigan against the wall with his hands poised, ready for the first attack.

“Who called you?” roared Campbell.

“Your bell—­” began the assistant.

“You lie!  Get out!  I was telling a joke to my old friend Harrigan.  Maybe I leaned back against the bell.  Shake hands with Harrigan.  I’ve known him for years.”

Incredulous, Harrigan lowered his clenched fist and relaxed it to meet the hesitant hand of the assistant.

“Now be off,” growled the chief, and the others fled.

As the door closed, Harrigan turned in stupid amazement upon the Scotchman.  The latter had dropped into his chair again and now looked at Harrigan with twinkling eyes.

“You’d have fought ’em all, eh, lad?”

He burst into heavy laughter.

“Ah, the blue devil that came in your eyes!  Why did I not let them have one whirl at you?  Ha, ha, ha!”

“Wake me up,” muttered Harrigan.  “I’m dreamin’!”

“There’s a thick lie in my throat,” said Campbell.  “I must wash it out and leave a truth there!”

He opened a small cupboard, exposing a formidable array of black and green bottles.  One of the black he pulled down, as well as two small glasses, which he filled to the brim.

“To your bonny blue eyes, lad!” he said, and raised a glass.  “Here’s an end to the mutiny—­and a drop to our old friendship!”

Harrigan, still with clouded mind, raised the glass and drank.  It was a fine sherry wine.

“How old would you say that wine was?” queried the Scotchman with exaggerated carelessness.

The carelessness did not deceive Harrigan.  His mind went blanker still, for he knew little about good wines.

“Well?” asked the engineer.

“H-m!” muttered Harrigan, and racked his brain to remember the ages at which a good vintage becomes a rare old wine.  “About thirty-five years.”

“By the Lord!” cried Campbell.  “It never fails—­a strong man knows his liquor like a book!  You’re almost right.  Add three years and you have it!  Thirty-eight years in sunshine and shadow!”

He leaned back and gazed dreamily up to the ceiling.

“Think of it,” he went on in a reverent murmur.  “Men have been born and grown strong and then started toward the shady side of life since this wine was put in the bottle.  For thirty-eight years it has been gathering and saving its perfume—­draw a breath of it now, lad!—­and when I uncork the bottle, all the odor blows out to me at once.”

“True,” said Harrigan, nodding sagely.  “I’ve thought the same thing, but never found the words for it, chief.”

“Have you?” asked Campbell eagerly.  “Sit down, lad; sit down!  Well, well!  Good wine was put on earth for a blessing, but men have misused it, Harrigan—­but hear me preaching when I ought to be praying!”

“Prayin’?” repeated the diplomatic Harrigan.  “No, no, man!  Maybe you’ve drunk a good store of liquor, but it shines through you.  It puts a flush on your face like a sun shinin’ through a cloud.  You’d hearten any man on a dark day!”

He could not resist the play on the words, and a shadow crossed the face of the engineer.

“Harrigan,” he growled, “there’s a double meaning in what you say, but I’ll not think of it.  You’re no fool, lad, but do not vex me.  But say your say.  I suppose I’m red enough to be seen by my own light on a dark night.  What does Bobbie say?

“Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!

“Well, well!  I forgave you for the sake of Bobbie!  Do you know his rhymes, lad?”

A light shone in the eye of Harrigan.  He began to sing softly in his musical, deep voice:  “Ye banks and braes of bonny Doon—­”

“No, no, man!” cried Campbell, raising his hand in horror at the sound of the false accent.  “It should go like this!”

He pulled a guitar out of a case and commenced to strum lightly on it, while he rendered the old song in a voice roughened by ill usage but still strong and true.  A knock at the door interrupted him at the climax of his song, and he glared toward the unseen and rash intruder.

“What will ye hae?” he roared, continuing the dialect which the song had freshened on his tongue.

“The shift in the fireroom is short-handed,” said the voice.  “That fellow Harrigan has not shown up.  Shall we search for him?”

“Search for the de’il!” thundered Campbell.  “Harrigan is doing a fine piece of work for me; shall I let him go to the fireroom to swing a shovel?”

“The captain’s orders, sir,” persisted the voice rashly.

Campbell leaped for the door and jerked it open a few inches.

“Be off!” he cried; “or I’ll set you passin’ coal yourself, my fine lad!  What?  Will ye be asking questions?  Is there no discipline?  Mutiny, mutiny—­that’s what this is!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” murmured a rapidly retreating voice.

Campbell closed and locked the door and turned back to Harrigan with a grin.

“The world’s a wide place,” he said, “but there’s few enough in it who know our Bobbie, God bless him!  When I’ve found one, shall I let him go down to the fireroom?  Ha!  Now tell me what’s wrong between you and McTee.”

“I will not talk,” said Harrigan with another bold stroke of diplomacy, “till I hear the rest of that song.  The true Scotch comes hard on my tongue, but I’ll learn it.”

“You will, laddie, for your heart’s right.  Man, man, I’m nothing now, but you should have heard me sing in the old days—­”

“When we were in Glasgow,” grinned Harrigan.

“In Glasgow,” repeated Campbell, and then lifted his head and finished the song.  “Now for the story, laddie.”

Harrigan started, as though recalled from a dream built up by the music.  Then he told briefly the tale of the tyranny aboard the Mary Rogers, now apparently to be repeated.

“So I thought,” he concluded, “that it was to be the old story over again—­look at my hands!”

He held them out.  The palms were still red and deeply scarred.  Campbell said nothing, but his jaw set savagely.

“I thought it was to be this all over again,” went on Harrigan, “till I met you, chief.  But with you for a friend I’ll weather the storm.  McTee’s a hard man, but when Scot meets Scot—­I’ll bet on the Campbells.”

“Would you bet on me against Black McTee?” queried the engineer, deeply moved.  “Well, lad, McTee’s a dour man, but dour or not he shall not run the engine room of the Heron.”

And he banged on the table for emphasis.

“Scrub down the bridge every morning, as they tell you, but when they send you below to pass the coal, come and report to me first.  I’ll have work for you to do—­chiefly practicing the right accent for Bobbie’s songs.  Is not that a man’s work?”