Harrigan

He held a little folded paper in his hand.  At sight of it Henshaw turned in his chair and faced Sloan with a wistful glance.

“Good?”

“Not very, sir.”

Henshaw rose slowly and frowned like the king on the messenger who bears tidings of the lost battie.

“Then very bad?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Very well.  Let me have the message.  You may go.”

He took the slip of paper cautiously, as if it were dangerous in itself, and then called back the operator as the latter reached the door.

“Come back a minute.  Sloan, you’re a good boy—­a very good boy.  Faithful, intelligent; you know your business.  H-m!  Here—­here’s a five spot”—­he slipped the money into Sloan’s hand—­“and you shall have more when we touch port.  Now this message, my lad—­you couldn’t have made any mistake in receiving it?  You couldn’t have twisted any of the words a little?”

“No mistake, I’m sure, sir.  It was repeated twice.”

“That makes it certain, then—­certain,” muttered Henshaw.  “That is all, Sloan.”

As the latter left the cabin, the old captain went back to his chair and sat with the paper resting upon his knee, as if a little delay might change its import.

“I am growing old, McTee,” he said at last, apologetically, “and age affects the eyes first of all.  Suppose you take this message, eh?  And read it through to me—­slowly—­I hate fast reading, McTee.”

The big Scotchman took the slip of paper and read with a long pause between each word: 

Beatrice—­failing—­rapidly—­hemorrhage—­this—­morning—­very—­weak.

The paper was snatched from his hand, and Henshaw repeated the words over and over to himself:  “Weak—­failing—­hemorrhage—­the fools!  A little bleeding at the nose they call a hemorrhage!”

McTee broke in:  “A good many doctors are apt to make a case seem more serious than it is.  They get more credit that way for the cure, eh?”

“God bless you, lad!  Aye, they’re a lot of damnable curs!  Burning at sea—­death by fire at sea!  He was right!  The old devil was right!  Look, McTee!  I’m safe on my ship; I’m rich; but still I’m burning to death in the middle of the ocean.”

He shook the Scotchman by his massive shoulder.

“Go get Sloan—­bring him here!”

McTee rose.

“No!  Don’t let me lay eyes on him—­he brought me this!  Go yourself and carry him a message to send.  The doctors are letting her die; they think she has no money.  Send them this message: 

“Save Beatrice at all costs.  Call in the greatest doctors.  I will pay all bills ten times over.

“Quick!  Why are you waiting here?  You fool!  Run!  Minutes mean life or death to her!”

McTee hastened back to the wireless house in the after-part of the ship.  To Sloan he gave the message, even exaggerating it somewhat.  After it was sent, he said:  “Look here, my boy, do you realize that it’s dangerous to bring the captain messages like that last one you carried to him?”

“Do I know it?  I should say I do!  Once the old boy jumped at me like a tiger because I carried in a bad report.”

“Could you make up a false message?”

“It’s against the law, sir.”

“It’s not against the law to keep a man from going crazy.”

“Crazy?”

“I mean what I say.  Henshaw is balancing on the ragged edge of insanity.  Mark my words!  If the news comes of his granddaughter’s death, he’ll fall on the other side.  Why can’t you give him some hope in the meantime?  Suppose you work up something this afternoon like this:  ‘Beatrice rallying rapidly.  Doctor’s much more hopeful.’  What do you say?”

“Crazy!” repeated the wireless operator, fascinated.  “If the old man loses his reason, we’re all in danger.”

“He’s on the verge of it.  I know something of this subject.  I’ve studied it a lot.  A common sign is when one fancy occupies a man’s brain.  Henshaw has two of them.  One is what an old soothsayer told him:  that he would die by fire at sea; the other is his love for this girl.  Between the two, he’s hi bad shape.  Remember that he’s an old man.”

“You’re right, sir; and I’ll do it.  It may not be legal, but we can’t stop for law in a case like this.”

McTee nodded and went back to Henshaw, whom he found walking the cabin with a step surprisingly elastic and quick.

“Go back and send another message,” he called.  “I made a mistake.  I didn’t send one that was strong enough.  They may not understand.  What I should have said was—­”

“I made it twice as strong as the way you put it,” said McTee; and he repeated his phrasing of the message with some exaggeration.

The lean hand of the captain wrung his.

“You’re a good lad, McTee—­a fine fellow.  Stand by me.  You’d never guess how my brain is on fire; the old devil of a soothsayer was right.  But that message you sent will bring those deadheaded doctors to life.  Ah, McTee, if I were only there for a minute in spirit, I could restore her to life—­yes, one minute!”

“Of course you could.  But in the meantime, for a change of thought, suppose you finish that order you were about to write out and send to Campbell.”

“What order?”

“About Harrigan.”

“Who the devil is Harrigan?”

McTee drew a deep breath and answered quietly:  “The man you ordered to work in the hole.  Here’s the paper and your pen.”

He placed them in the hands of the captain, but the latter held them idly.

“It’s the frail ones who are carried off by the white plague.  Am I right?”

“No, you’re wrong.  The frail ones sometimes have a better chance than the husky people.  Look at the number of athletes who are carried away by it!”

“God bless you, McTee!”

“The strength that counts is the strength of spirit, and this girl has your own fighting spirit.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes; I saw it in her eyes.”

Henshaw shook his head sadly.

“No; they’re the eyes of her grandmother, and she had no fighting spirit.  I think I married her more for pity than for love.  Her grandmother died by that same disease, McTee.”

The latter gave up the struggle and spent an hour soothing the excited old man.  When he managed to escape, he went up and down the deck breathing deeply of the fresh air.  For the moment Harrigan was safe, but it would not be long before he would force Henshaw to deliver the order.  Into this reverie broke the voice of Jerry Hovey.

“Beg your pardon, Captain McTee.”

The Scotchman turned to the bos’n with the smile still softening his stern lips.

“Well?” he asked good-naturedly.

“Let me have half a dozen words, sir.”

“A thousand, bos’n.  What is it?”

Now, Hovey remembered what Harrigan had said about coming straight to the point, and he appreciated the value of the advice.  Particularly in speaking to a man like McTee, for he recognized in the Scotchman some of the same strong, blunt characteristics of Harrigan.

“Every man who’s sailed the South Seas knows Captain McTee,” he began.

“None of that, lad.  If you know me, you also know that I’m called Black McTee—­and for a reason.”

“More than that, sir, we know that whatever men say of you, your word has always been good.”

“Well?”

“I’m going to ask you to give me your word that what I have to say, if it doesn’t please you, will go out one ear as fast as it goes in the other.”

“You have my word.”

“And maybe your hand, sir?”

McTee, stirred by curiosity, shook hands.

Hovey began:  “Some of us have sailed a long time and never got much in the pocket to show for it.”

“Yes, that’s true of me.”

“But there’s none of us would turn our backs on the long green?”

McTee grinned.

“Well, sir, I have a little plan.  Suppose you knew an old man—­a man so old, sir, that he was sure to die in a year or so.  And suppose he had one heir—­a girl who was about to die—­”

“Mutiny, bos’n,” said McTee coldly.

But the eye of Hovey was fully as cold; he knew his man.

“Well?” he queried.

“Talk ahead.  I’ve given you my word to keep quiet.”

“Suppose this old man had a lot of money.  Would it be any crime—­any great crime to slip a little of that long green into our pockets?”

Two pictures were in McTee’s mind—­one of the safe piled full of gold, and the other of the half-crazed old skipper with his dying granddaughter.  After all, it was only a matter of months before Henshaw would be dead, for certainly he would not long survive the death of Beatrice.  Even a small portion of that hoard would enable him to leave the sea—­to woo Kate as she must be wooed before he could win her.  Golden would be the veil with which he could blind her eyes to the memory of Harrigan after he had removed the Irishman from his path.

“Very well, bos’n.  I understand what you mean.  I’ve seen the inside of that safe in the cabin.  Now I come straight to the point.  Why do you talk with me?”

“Because I need a man like you.”

“To lead the mutiny?”

“Tell me first, are you with us?”

“Who are us?”

“You’ll have to speak first.”

“I’m with you.”

“Now I’ll tell you.  The whole forecastle is hungry for the end of White Henshaw.  Your share of the money is whatever you want to make it.  You can have all my part; what I want is the sight of Henshaw crawlin’ at our feet.”

“You’re a good deal of a man, Hovey.  Henshaw has put you in his school, and now you’re about to graduate, eh?  But why do you want me?  What brought you to me?”

“I thought I didn’t need you a while ago; now I have to have somebody stronger than I am.  I was the king of the bunch yesterday; but the last man we took into our plan proved to be stronger than I am.”

“Who?”

“Harrigan.”

McTee straightened slowly and his eyes brightened.  Hovey went on:  “Before he’d been with us ten minutes, the rest of the men in the forecastle were looking up to him.  He has the reputation.  He won it by facing you and Henshaw at the same time.  Now the lads listen to me, but they keep their eyes on Harrigan.  I know what that means.  That’s why I come here and offer the leadership to you.”

McTee was thinking rapidly.

“A plan like this is fire, bos’n, and I have an idea I might burn my fingers unless you have enough of the crew with you.  If you have Harrigan, it certainly means that you have a majority of the rest.”

Hovey grinned:  “Aye, you know Harrigan.”

The insinuation made McTee hot, but he went on seriously:  “If you could make me sure that you have Harrigan, I’d be one of you.”

“What proof do you want?”

“None will do except the word out of his own mouth.  Listen!  Along about four bells this afternoon I’ll find some way of sending Miss Malone out of her cabin.  Then I’ll go in there and wait.  Bring Harrigan close to that door at that tune and make him talk about the mutiny.  Can you do it?”

“But why the room of the girl?”

“You’re stupid, Hovey.  Because if you talked outside of the cabin where I sleep—­that being the office of Henshaw—­he’d hear you as well as I would.”

“Then I’ll bring him to the door of the girl’s cabin.  At four bells?”

“Right.”

“After that we’ll talk over the details, sir?”

“We will.  And keep away from me, Hovey.  If Henshaw sees me talking with members of his crew, he might begin to think—­and any of his thinking is dangerous for the other fellow.”

The bos’n touched his cap.

“Aye, aye, sir.  You can begin hearin’ the chink of the money, and I begin to see White Henshaw eatin’ dirt.  With Black McTee—­excusin’ the name, sir—­to lead us, there ain’t nothin’ can stop us.”