Harrigan

“She’s dead?” McTee asked softly when they stood on the promenade outside.

“She is.  She must have been dying at about the time I brought in that other message—­the one you told me to bring.”

They avoided each other’s eyes.  Inside the cabin they heard a faint sound like paper crumpled up.  Then they caught a moan from the room—­a soft sound such as the wind makes when it hums around the corners of a tall building.

They were silent for a time, listening with painful intentness.  Not another murmur came from the cabin.  Sloan wiped his wet forehead and whispered shakily:  “I wouldn’t mind it so much if he’d curse and rave.  But to sit like that, not making a sound—­it ain’t natural, Captain McTee.”

“Hush, you fool,” said McTee.  “White Henshaw is alone with his dead.  And it’s me that he blames for it.  I brought him the bad luck.”

Sloan shuddered.

“Then I wouldn’t have your name for ten thousand dollars, sir.”

“If there’s bad luck,” said McTee solemnly, for every sailor has some superstitious belief, “it’s on the entire ship—­on every one of the crew as well as on me.  We’ll have to pay for this—­all of us—­and pay high.  We’re apt to feel it before long.  And I’ve got to go back to that cabin after a while!”

He spoke it as another man might say:  “And an hour from now I have to face the firing squad.”

But when he returned to the cabin, he heard no outburst of reproaches from White Henshaw.  The door to Henshaw’s bedroom was closed, and McTee could hear the captain stirring about in it, working at some nameless task over which he hummed continually, now and then breaking into little snatches of song.  McTee was stupefied.  He tried to explain to himself by imagining that Henshaw was one of those hard-headed men who live for the present and never waste time thinking of the past.  He had made many plans for his granddaughter.  Now she was dead, and he dismissed her from his mind.

This explanation might be the truth, but nevertheless the steady humming wore on McTee’s nerves until finally he knocked on the door of the inner cabin.  It was dusk by this time, and when Henshaw opened the door, he was carrying a lantern.

“You!” he muttered.  “Well, captain?”

“You seem busy,” said McTee uneasily, shifting under the steady light from the lantern.  “I thought I might be able to help you.”

“At the work I’m doing no man can help,” answered Henshaw.

“What work?”

“I’m calculating profit and loss.”

“On your cargo?”

“Cargo?  Yes, yes!  Profit and loss on this cargo.”

And he broke into a harsh laugh.  Obviously Henshaw was lying, yet the Scotchman went on with the conversation, eager to draw out some hidden meaning.

“It’s an odd idea of yours, this, to bring a shipment of wheat from the south seas to Central America.”

“Aye, the first time it’s ever been done.  This wheat came all the way from Australia and the United States, and now it’s going back again.  I’ll tell you why.  Wheat is scarce for export even in the States just now, so I’m taking a gambling chance on getting this to port before the first quantities come from the north.  If I get in in time, I’ll clean up—­big.”

“I understand,” said McTee.

The captain raised his lantern again and shone it in the eyes of McTee.

“Do you understand?” he queried.  “Do you?”

And he broke again into the harsh laughter.  McTee started back with a scowl.

“What’s the mystery, captain?  What’s the secret you’re laughing about?”

Again Henshaw chuckled.

“You’re a curious man, McTee.  Well, well!  What am I laughing about? 
Money always makes me want to laugh, and now I’m laughing about money. 
Do you understand that?  No, you don’t.  Perhaps you will before long. 
Patience, my friend!”

For some reason the blood of McTee grew cold and colder as he listened.  His original suspicion of insanity grew weaker.  He was being mocked, and the mad do not mock.

“So tonight is the last night of Harrigan, eh?” said Henshaw suddenly.

“In the name of God,” said McTee, deeply shaken, “why do you speak of that?  Yes, tonight he dies!”

“Alone!” said Henshaw in a changed voice.  “He dies alone!  It must be a grim thing to die alone at sea—­to slip into the black water—­to drink the salt—­a little struggle—­and then the light goes out.  So!”

He shivered and folded his arms.  He seemed to be embracing himself to find warmth.

“But to die in the middle of the ocean with many men around you,” he went on, speaking half to himself, “that would not be so bad.  What do you say, McTee?”

But McTee was not in a mood for speaking.  He only stared, fascinated and dumb.  Henshaw continued:  “In the middle of night, with the engines thrumming, and the lights burning in every port, suppose a ship should put her nose under the surface and dive for the bottom!  The men are singing in the forecastle, and suddenly their song goes out.  The captain is in the wheelhouse.  He is dreaming of his home town, maybe, when he sees the black waters rising over the prow.  He thinks it is a dream and rubs his eyes.  Before he can look again, the waves are upon him.  There is no alarm; the wireless, perhaps, is broken; the boats, perhaps, are useless; and so the brave ship dives down to Davy Jones’s locker with all on board, and the next minute the waves wash over the spot and rub out all memory of those who died there.  Well, well, McTee, there’s a way of dying that would please White Henshaw more than a death in a bed at a home port, with the landsharks sitting round your bed grinning and nodding out your minutes of life.  Ha?”

But Black McTee, like a frightened child caught in a dark room, turned and fled in shameless fear into the deep night.  Not till he was far aft did he stop in a quiet place to think of Harrigan dying alone, choking in the black water.

But Harrigan was far from fear.  He lay on the deck above the forecastle, cradled by the swing of the bows.  He shook away the lurking horror of the mutiny and gave himself up to peace.

In the midst of his sleep he dreamed of lying in a pitch-dark room and staring up at a brilliant point of light, like a dark lantern partially unshuttered.  And suddenly Harrigan woke, and looking up, he caught a flashing point of light directly above his eyes.  In another moment he was aware of the dark figure of a man crouched beside him, and then he knew that the light which glittered over his head was the shimmer of the stars against a steel blade.

The knife, as he stared, jerked up and then down with a sweep; Harrigan shot up his hand to meet the blow, and his grip fastened on a wrist.  Wrenching on that wrist, he jerked himself to his knees, and the knife clattered on the deck, but at the same instant the other man—­a dim figure which he could barely make out in the thick night—­rushed on him, a shoulder struck against his chest, and he was thrown sprawling on the deck, sliding with the toss of the deck underneath the rail.  He would have fallen overboard had he not kept his grip on that wrist, and as he reached the perilous edge, the other man jerked back to free his arm.

He succeeded, but the effort checked the slide of Harrigan’s great body, and the next instant the Irishman was on his feet.  He drove at the elusive figure with his balled fist, but the other ducked beneath the blow and fled down the ladder.  Harrigan stopped only long enough to sweep up the fallen knife before he followed, but when he reached the edge of the deck, the waist of the ship extending back to the main cabin was empty.  The man, whoever he was, must have fled into the forecastle.

Harrigan knew that if one of the sailors had dared to attack him, he must be suspected, and if he was suspected by one, that one would poison the minds of a dozen others in a short time.  It was even possible that someone in authority had given orders for his death.  With this in mind he climbed down the ladder and opened the door of the forecastle.  He found the sailors sitting in a loose circle on the floor rolling battered dice out of a time-blackened leather box.

Harrigan sat down on the edge of his bunk, produced the captured knife, and commenced to sharpen it slowly, without ostentation, on the sole of his shoe.  It was already of a razor keenness.  It was a carving knife evidently stolen from the galley of the ship; it had been ground so often that the steel which remained was thin and narrow.  A sharp blow with that knife would drive it to the handle through human flesh.  As he passed it slowly back and forth across his shoe, Harrigan watched the faces of the others with a side glance.

One or two looked up frankly and nodded approval when they saw his occupation.  The others, however, kept at their game, and of these the only one to pay no attention to his presence was Jerry Hovey.  It convinced Harrigan at once that the bos’n had given orders for his death.  It might have been the bos’n himself who had made the attempt just a moment before and had retreated to the forecastle.

On the other hand, the bos’n seemed to be breathing regularly, and the man with whom he had fought would not be able to keep his chest from heaving a little after that violent effort.  It was more probable that one of the men who lay in their bunks had made the attempt, but it would be useless to examine them.  Then his glance fell on Kamasura, the cabin boy.

The little, flat-faced Jap was a favorite with Jerry Hovey, and he was permitted to come forward whenever he pleased to the forecastle.  He now sat on a box against a wall, watching the dice game with his slant eyes.  Once or twice he met the searching scrutiny of Harrigan with a calm glance, and when it was repeated for the third time, nodded and grinned in the most friendly manner.

Harrigan was about to dismiss his suspicion from his mind, when he noticed that the Jap’s arms were folded and the hands thrust up the opposite sleeves, concealing both wrists.  Harrigan considered a moment, and then stooped over and commenced to unlace his boots.  When the first one was unloosened, he kicked it off, but with such careless vigor that it skidded far across the floor and smashed against the box on which Kamasura sat.  The little Oriental leaped to his feet and caught up the shoe.  As he did so, Harrigan’s watchful eye saw a bright-red spot on the Jap’s wrist.  That was where the grip of his fingers had lain when they struggled on the deck above.

“’Scuse me, Kamasura,” he called cheerily, and raised his hand to betoken that the boot had come from him.

There was a flash of teeth and a glint of almond eyes as the Jap grinned in answer and the boot was tossed back.  Harrigan caught it, but his eye was not on the shoe.  He was staring covertly at Jerry Hovey, and now he saw the gray-blue eyes of the bos’n flash up and glance with a singular meaning at Kamasura.  If he had heard every detail of the plot, Harrigan could not have understood more fully.  Thereafter, every moment he spent on the Heron would be full of danger, but apparently Hovey had confided his hatred of the Irishman to Kamasura alone.  If Hovey had spoken to the rest of the forecastle, those blunt sailors would have showed their feelings by some scowling side glance at Harrigan.  It flashed across his mind that the reason Hovey wished him out of the way was because he feared him.