Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  Sleep began to overcome him, and he fought vainly against it. In a choppy sea the bows of a ship make the worst possible bed, for they toss up and down with sickening rapidity and jar quickly from side to side; but when a vessel is plowing through a long-running ground swell, the bows of the ship move with a sway more soothing than the swing of a hammock in a wind. Under these circumstances Harrigan was lulled to sleep.

  He woke at length with a consciousness, not of a light shining in his face, but of one that had just been flashed across his eyes. Then a guarded voice said: “He’s dead to the world; he won’t hear nothin’.”

  Peering cautiously up from under the shelter of his eyelashes, he made out a bulky figure leaning above him.

  “Sure he’s dead to the world,” said a more distant voice. “After the day he must have put in with Campbell, he won’t wake up till he’s dragged out. I know!”

  “Lift his foot and let it drop,” advised another. “If you can do that to a man without waking him, you know he’s not going to be waked up by any talkin’.”

  Harrigan’s foot was immediately raised and dropped. He merely sighed as if in sleep, and continued to breathe heavily, regularly. After a moment he was conscious that the form above him had disappeared. Then very slowly he turned his head and raised his eyelids merely enough to peer through the lashes. The sailors sat cross-legged in a loose circle on the floor of the forecastle. At the four corners of the group sat four significant figures. They were like the posts of the prize ring supporting the rope; that is to say, the less important sailors who sat between them. Each of the four was a man of mark.

  Facing Harrigan were Jacob Flint and Sam Hall. The former was a little man, who might have lived unnoticed forever had it not been for a terrible scar which deformed his face. It was a cut received in a knife fight at a Chinese port. The white, gleaming line ran from the top of his temple, across the side of his right eye, and down to the cheekbone. The eye was blind as a result of the wound, but in healing the cut had drawn the skin so that the lids of the eye were pulled awry in a perpetual, villainous squint. It was said that before this wound Flint had been merely an ordinary sailor, but that afterward he was inspired to live up to the terror of his deformed face.

  Sam Hall, the “corner post,” at Flint’s right, was a type of blond stupidity, huge of body, with a bull throat and a round, featureless face. You looked in vain to find anything significant in this fellow beyond his physical strength, until your glance lingered on his eyes. They were pale blue, expressionless, but they hinted at possibilities of berserker rage.

  The other two, whose backs were toward Harrigan, were Garry Cochrane and Jim Kyle. The latter might have stood for a portrait of a pirate of the eighteenth century, with a drooping, red mustache and bristling beard. The reputation of this monster, however, was far less terrible than that of any of the other three, certainly far less than Garry Cochrane. This was a lean fellow with bright black eyes, glittering like a suspicious wolf’s.

  Between these corner posts sat the less distinguished sailors. They might have been notable cutthroats in any other assemblage of hard-living men, but here they granted precedence willingly to the four more notable heroes.

  Around the circle walked Jerry Hovey like a shepherd about his flock. It was apparent that they all held him in high favor. His chief claim to distinction, or perhaps his only one, was that he had served as bos’n for ten years under White Henshaw; but this record was enough to win the respect of even Garry Cochrane.

  It was Jim Kyle who had peered into the face of Harrigan, for now he was pushing to one side the lantern he had used and settling back into his place in the circle. He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb.

  “How’d you happen to miss out with the Irishman, Jerry?”

  “Talk low or you may wake him,” warned Hovey. “I lost him because the fool ain’t sailed long enough to know White Henshaw. He has an idea that mutiny at night is like hittin’ a man when he’s down — as if there was any other way of hittin’ Henshaw an’ gettin’ away with it!”

  The chuckle of the sailors was like the rumble of the machinery below, blended and lost with that sound.

  “So he’s out — an’ you know what that means,” went on Hovey.

  A light came into the pale eyes of Sam Hall, and his thick lips pulled back in a grin.

  “Aye,” he growled, “we do! He’s a strong man, but” — and here he raised his vast arms and stretched them— “I’ll tend to Harrigan!”

  The voice of the bos’n was sharp: “None o’ that! Wait till I give orders, Sam, before you raise a hand. We’re too far from the coast. Let old Henshaw bring us close inshore, an’ then we’ll turn loose.”

  “What I don’t see,” said one of the sailors, “is how we make out for hard cash after we hit the coast. We beach the Heron — all right; but then we’re turned loose in the woods without a cent.”

  “You’re a fool,” said Garry Cochrane. “We loot the ship before we abandon her. There’ll be money somewhere.”

  “Aye,” said Hovey, “there’s money. That’s what I got you together for tonight. There’s money, and more of it than you ever dreamed of.”

  He waited for his words to take effect in the brains of the men, running his glance around the circle, and a light flashed in response to each eye as it met his.

  He continued: “White Henshaw cashed in every cent of his property before he sailed in the Heron. I know, because he used me for some of his errands. And I know that he had a big safe put into his cabin. For ten years everything that White Henshaw has looked at turned into gold. I know! All that gold he’s got in that safe — you can lay to that.”

  He turned to the sailor who had first raised the question: “Money?

  You’ll have your share of the loot — if you can carry it!”

  They drew in their breath as if they were drinking.

  Hovey continued: “Now, lads, I know you’re gettin’ excited and impatient. That’s why I’ve got you together. You’ve got to wait. And until I give the word, you’ve got to keep your eyes on the deck an’ run every time one of the mates of White Henshaw — damn his heart! — gives the word. Why? Because one wrong word — one queer look — will tip off the skipper that something’s wrong, and once he gets suspicious, you can lay to it that he’ll find out what we’re plannin’. I know!”

  There was a grim significance in that repeated phrase, “I know,” for it hinted at a knowledge more complete and evil than falls to the share of the ordinary mortal.

  “Lads, keep your eyes on the deck and play the game until I give the

  word! If the wind of this comes to the captain, it’s overboard for

  Jerry Hovey. I’d rather give myself to the sharks than to White

  Henshaw. That’s all.

  “Now, lads, it’s come to the point where we’ve got to know what we’ll do. There’s two ways. One is to crowd all them what ain’t in the mutiny into one cabin an’ keep ’em there till we beach the boat.”

  “So that they can get out and tell the land sharks what we’ve done?” suggested Garry Cochrane in disgust.

  “Garry,” said Hovey with deep feeling, “you’re a lad after my heart. And you’re right. If one of them lives, he’ll be enough to put a halter around the necks of each of us. We couldn’t get away. If we’re once described, there ain’t no way we could dodge the law.”

  He grinned sardonically as he looked about the circle: “There’s something about us, lads, that makes us different from other men.”

  The sailors glanced appreciatively at the scarred countenances of their fellows and laughed hoarsely.

  “So the second way is the only way,” went on Hovey, seeing that he had scored his point. “The rest of the crew that ain’t with us has got to go under. Are you with me?”

  “Aye,” croaked the chorus, and every man looked down at the floor. Each one had picked out the man he hated the most, and was preparing the manner of the killing.

&nb
sp; “Good,” said Hovey; “and now that we’ve agreed on that, we’ve got to choose—”

  He stopped, going rigid and blank of face. He had seen the open, chilling blue eye of Harrigan, who, drawn on into forgetfulness, had lain for some time on his bunk watching the scene without caution.

  CHAPTER 21

  “HE’S HEARD!” STAMMERED Hovey, pointing. “Guard the door! Get him!”

  “Bash in his head an’ overboard with the lubber!” growled Sam Hall.

  Not one of the others spoke; their actions were the more significant.

  Some leaped to the door and barred the exit.

  Others started for Harrigan. The latter leaped off his bunk and, sweeping up a short-legged, heavy stool, sprang back against the wall. This he held poised, ready to drive it at the first man who approached. Their semicircle grew compact before him, but still they hesitated, for the man who made the first move would die.

  “You fools!” said Harrigan, brandishing his stool. “Keep off!”

  He was thinking desperately, quickly.

  “Harrigan,” said Hovey, edging his way to the front of the sailors, “you heard!”

  “I did!”

  They growled, infuriated. His death was certain now, but they kept back for another moment, astonished that this man would sign his own sentence of doom. From marlinspikes to pocketknives, every man held some sort of a weapon. Garry Cochrane, flattening himself against the wall at one side, edged inch by inch toward Harrigan.

  “I heard it all,” said the Irishman, “and until the last word I thought you were a lot of bluffin’ cowards.”

  “You had your chance, Harrigan,” said Hovey, “an’ you turned me down.

  Now you get what’s due you.”

  The sailors crouched a little as if at a command to leap forward in the attack. Cochrane was perilously near.

  “If I get my due,” said Harrigan coolly, “you’ll go down on your knees. Stand back, Cochrane, or I’ll brain ye! You’ll go down on your knees an’ thank God that I’m with ye!”

  “Stand fast, Garry!” ordered Hovey. “What do you mean, Harrigan?”

  The Irishman laughed. Every son of Erin is an actor, and now Harrigan’s laughter rang true.

  “What should I mean except what I said?” he answered.

  “He’s tryin’ to save his head,” broke in Kyle, “but with the fear of death lookin’ him in the eye, any man would join us. Finish him, lads.”

  “You fool!” said Harrigan authoritatively. “Don’t talk so loud, or you’ll have White Henshaw down on our heads. Maybe he’s heard that bull voice of yours already!”

  It was a master stroke. The mention of the terrible skipper and the skillful insinuation that he was one of them, made them straighten and stare at him.

  “Go guard the door,” said Hovey to one of his sailors, “an’ see that none of the mates is near. Now, Harrigan, what d’you mean? You’d hear no word of mutiny when I talked to you. Speak for your life now, because we’re hard to convince.”

  “We can’t be convinced,” said Garry Cochrane, “but maybe it’ll be fun to hear him talk before we dump him overboard.”

  Instead of answering the speaker, Harrigan looked upon Hovey with a cold eye of scorn.

  He said: “I changed my mind. I’m not one of you. I thought the bos’n was a real captain for the gang, but I’ll not follow a dog that lets every one of his pack yelp.”

  “I’m a dog, am I?” snarled Hovey furiously. “I’ll teach you what I am, Harrigan. An’ you, Cochrane, keep your face shut. I’ll learn you who’s boss of this little crew!”

  “If you’re half the man you seem,” went on Harrigan, “this game looks good to me.”

  “You lie,” said the bos’n. “You turned me down cold when I talked to you.”

  “You fool, that was because you said no word outright of wipin’ out the officers an’ takin’ control of the ship. You sneaked up to me in the dark; you felt me out before you said a word; you were like a cat watchin’ a rathole. Am I a rat? Am I a sneak? Do I have to be whispered to? No, I’m Harrigan, an’ anyone who wants to talk to me has got to speak out like a man!”

  The very impudence of his speech held them in check for another precious moment. He whirled the heavy stool.

  “If you wanted me, why didn’t you come an’ say: ‘Harrigan, I know you. You hate Henshaw an’ McTee an’ the rest. We’re goin’ to wipe ’em out an’ beach the ship. Are you with us?’ Why, then I’d of shook hands with you, and that would end it. But when you come whisperin’ and insinuatin’, sayin’ nothin’ straight from the shoulder, how’d I know you weren’t sent by Henshaw to feel me out, eh? How do any of you know the bos’n ain’t feelin’ you out for the skipper he’s sailed with ten years?”

  The circle shifted, loosened; half the men were facing Hovey with suspicious eyes. They had not thought of this greater danger, and the bos’n was desperate in the crisis.

  “Boys,” he pleaded, “are you goin’ to let one stranger ball up our game? Are you goin’ to start doubtin’ me on his say-so?”

  The men glanced from him to Harrigan. Plainly they were deep in doubt, and the Irishman made his second masterful move. He stepped forward, dropping his stool with a crash to the floor, and clapped a hand upon Hovey’s shoulder.

  “I spoke too quick,” he said frankly, “but you got me mad, bos’n. I know you’re straight, an’ I’m with you, for one. A man Harrigan will toiler ought to be good enough for the rest, eh?”

  Jerry Hovey wiped his gleaming forehead. The kingdom of his ambition was rebuilt by this speech.

  “Sit down, boys,” he ordered. “The last man in the forecastle is with us now. We’re solid. Sit down and we’ll plan our game.”

  The plan, as it developed after the circle re-formed, was a simple one. They were to wait until the ship was within two or three days’ voyage from the coast of Central America — their destination — and then they would act. They had secured to their side the firemen and the first assistant engineer. That meant that they could run the ship safely with the bos’n, who understood navigation, at the wheel. They would select a night, and then, on the command of Hovey, the men would take the arms which they had prepared.

  One of the Japanese cabin boys, Kamasura, was a member of the plot. He would furnish butcherknives and cleavers from the kitchen. Besides this, there were various implements which could be used as bludgeons; and finally there were the pocketknives with which every sailor is always equipped, generally stout, long-bladed instruments. The advantage of firearms was with the officers of the ship, but apparently there were no rifles and probably very few revolvers aboard. Against powder and lead they would have the advantage of a surprise attack.

  First, Sam Hall and Kyle were to go down to the hole of the ship and lead the firemen in their attack upon the oilers and wipers, most of whom had not been approachable with the plan of mutiny because they were newly signed on the ship. In this part of the campaign the most important feature would be the capturing of Campbell, who would be reserved for a finely drawn-out, tortured death. The firemen had insisted upon this.

  In the meantime Hovey with Flint and the rest would attack the cabins of Henshaw, McTee, and the mates. Here they depended chiefly upon the effect of the surprise. If it were possible, Henshaw also was to be taken alive and reserved for a long death like Campbell. This done, they would lead the ship to an uninhabited part of the shore, beach her, and scatter over the mainland, each with his share of the booty.

  Harrigan forced himself to take an active part in the discussion of the plans. Several features were his own suggestion, among others the idea of presenting a petition for better food to Henshaw, and beating him down while he was reading it; but all the time that the Irishman spoke, he was thinking of Kate.

  When the crew turned into their bunks at last, he went over a thousand schemes in his head. In the first place he might go to Henshaw at once and warn him of the coming danger, but he remembered what the bos’n had sa
id — in such a case he would not be believed, and both the crew and the commander would be against him.

  Finally it seemed to him that the best thing was to wait until the critical moment had arrived. He could warn the captain just in time — or if absolutely necessary he could warn McTee, who would certainly believe him. In the meantime there were possibilities that the mutiny would come to nothing through internal dissension among the crew. In any case he must play a detestable part, acting as a spy upon the crew and pretending enthusiasm for the mutiny.

  With that shame like a taste of soot in his throat, he climbed to the bridge the next morning with his bucket of suds and his brush, and there as usual he found McTee, cool and clean in the white outfit of Henshaw. At sight of the Scotchman he remembered at once that he must pretend the double exhaustion which comes of pain and hard labor. Therefore he thrust out his lower jaw and favored McTee with a glare of hate. He was repaid by the glow of content which showed in the captain’s face.

  “And the hole of the Heron,” he said, speaking softly lest his voice should carry to the man in the wheelhouse, “is it cooler than the fireroom of the Mary Rogers?”

  Harrigan glanced up, glowering.

  “Damn you, McTee!”

  “The palms of your hands, lad, are they raw? Is the lye of the suds cool to them?”

  Another black glance came in reply and McTee leaned back against the rail, tapping one contented toe against the floor.

  “It was a fine tale you told me yesterday, Harrigan,” he said at length, “but afterward I saw Kate, and she was never kinder. I spoke of you, and we laughed together about it. She said you were like a horse that’s too proud — you need the whip!”