Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  “Right,” nodded McTee. “If her lungs are weak, that’s the place to take her.”

  Henshaw jerked erect in his chair. “Weak lungs? Who said she had weak lungs? McTee, you’re a fool! A little cold on the chest, that’s all that’s the matter with the girl! The doctors have made the sickness — they and their rotten medicines! And now they’re making sport out of White Henshaw. I’ll skin them alive, I will!”

  McTee lighted a cigar and nodded judiciously as he puffed it.

  “Very good idea, Henshaw. If you want me to, I’ll go along and help you out.”

  “You’re a brick, McTee. Maybe I’ll need you. Getting old; not what I used to be.”

  “I see you’re not,” said McTee boldly.

  Henshaw scowled: “What do you mean?”

  “That affair of Harrigan. He’s still going scot-free, you know.”

  “Right! McTee, I’m getting feeble-minded, but I’ll make up for lost time.”

  He caught up pen and paper, while McTee drew a long breath of relief. A moment later he was astonished to note that the captain had not written a single letter.

  “I’d forgotten,” murmured Henshaw. “When I started to write that order this morning — just as I was putting pen to paper — in came Sloan with the message from the doctors saying that Beatrice was in a critical situation. It may be, captain, that this message is bad luck for me, eh?”

  “Nonsense,” said McTee easily, gripping his hand with rage, while he fought to control his voice. “You mustn’t let superstitions run away with you.”

  “So! So!” frowned Henshaw. “You’re a young man to give me advice, McTee. I’ve followed superstitions all my life. I tell you there’s something in those star-gazing devils of the South Seas. They know things that aren’t in the books.”

  “What about the old fool who prophesied that you’d die by fire at sea?”

  Henshaw shivered, and his eyes narrowed as he stared at McTee.

  “How do you know he’s an old fool, eh? We haven’t reached port yet — not by a long sight!”

  “Well,” said McTee, with a carefully assumed carelessness, “this ship belongs to you — you’re the skipper; but on a boat I was captain of, no damned engineer would pull my beard and tell me to rightabout. They never got away with a line of chatter like that when Black McTee was speaking to them. Never!”

  At this comparison the face of Henshaw grew marvelously evil.

  “McTee,” he said, “men step lively when you speak to them — but they jump out of their skins when they hear White Henshaw’s voice.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” said the other dauntlessly, “but d’you think Campbell ever would have taken this chance if he didn’t know you’re not what you used to be?”

  For reply Henshaw set his teeth and dipped the pen into the ink. As he poised it above the paper, Sloan appeared at the door calling: “One minute, captain!”

  The captain turned livid and rose slowly, crumpling the paper as he did so and letting it drop to the floor.

  “Out with it!” he muttered in a hoarse whisper. “She’s worse again!

  Damn you, McTee, I told you this message was bad luck!”

  The wireless operator was much puzzled and glance from the Scotchman to his skipper.

  “I only wanted to know, sir, if you wish to send an answer to this last wireless. Any congratulations?”

  “No — get out!”

  And as Sloan fled from the door with a wondering side glance at McTee, Henshaw sank back into his chair, picked up the paper on which he was about to write, and tore it into small bits. Not until this task was finished was he able to speak to McTee.

  “D’you see now? Is there nothing in my superstitions? Why, sir, just holding that pen over this piece of damnable paper brought Sloan on the run to my door. If I’d written a single word, he’d of had a message from the doctors saying that Beatrice was dying. I know!”

  “You really think,” began McTee, and some of his furious impatience crept into his voice— “you really think that writing on that piece of paper with your pen would have brought in Sloan with a wireless message from the mainland?”

  Henshaw shook his head slowly.

  “There’s no use trying to explain these things,” he said, “but sometimes, McTee, there’s a small voice that comes up inside of me and tells me what to do and what not to do. When I first saw the picture of Beatrice — that one where she’s just a slip of a child — there was a voice that said: ‘Here’s the spirit of your dead wife come back to life. You must work for her and cherish her.’ So I’ve done it. And because I started to do it, the voice never left me. It warned me when to put to sea and when to stay in port. It gave me a hint when to buy and when to sell, and the result is that I’m rich — rich — rich. Gold in my hand and gold in my brain, McTee!”

  The Scotchman began to feel more and more that old age or his monomania had shaken White Henshaw’s reason, but he said bitterly: “And I suppose, if that voice never fails you and if these South Seas natives can read the future, that you are bound to burn at sea?”

  “Damn you!” said Henshaw, terribly moved. “What devil keeps putting that in your brain? Isn’t it in mine all the day and all the night? Don’t I see hellfire in the dark? Don’t I see the same flames, blue and thin, dancing in the light of the sun at midday? Is the thing ever out of my mind? Were you put on this ship to keep dinning the idea into my ears? If there’s something more than the life on earth, then there must be a hell — and if there’s a hell, then it’s real hellfire that I see!”

  He paused and pointed a gaunt, trembling arm at McTee:

  “D’you understand? The men I’ve killed before they died — they send their spirits here to walk beside me. They wait in the dark — and they whisper in my ear!”

  McTee swallowed hard and commenced to edge toward the door.

  “Farley is always hanging around — Farley, as I saw him on the beach that last time in his loincloth, with his pig eyes; sometimes he seems to be begging me to take pity on him; sometimes he seems to be laughing at me. And he’s always got his hand outstretched. And Collins comes stroking his beard in the way he had, and he keeps his hand stretched out to me. What do they want? Alms! Alms! Alms! They want my soul for alms to take it below and burn it in the hellfire — the thin, blue flames!”

  He stopped in the midst of his ravings and drew himself erect, a smile of infinite cruelty on his lips.

  “Let them all come with their damned, empty palms! They’re ghosts, and they cannot stop me so long as I follow the small voice that’s inside of me. They can’t stop me, and I’ll win back to Beatrice. There I’m safe — safe! Her hands are thin and light and cool and as fragrant as flowers. She’ll lay them on my eyelids and I’ll go to sleep! And the ghosts will close their empty hands. Ha! McTee, d’you know aught of the power of a woman’s love?”

  He stepped close to the burly Scotchman.

  “Keep off,” growled McTee. “I want none of you! There’s poison in your touch!”

  He raised his hand like a guard, but two lean, thin hands, incredibly strong, closed on his wrists.

  “A woman’s love,” went on the old buccaneer of the South Seas, “is stronger than armor plate to save the man she cares for. You can’t see it; you could never see it! But I tell you there are times when the ghosts have come close to me, and then sometimes I’ve seen the shadows of thin, small hands come in front of me and push them back. The hands of Beatrice push them back, and they’re helpless to harm me!”

  CHAPTER 27

  BUT MCTEE WRENCHED his arms away and fled out on the deck. He blundered into Jerry Hovey, who started back at sight of him.

  “What’s happened, sir?” asked the bos’n. “Been seein’ ghosts?”

  “Damn you,” growled McTee, “I had a nap and a bad dream — a hell of a nightmare.”

  “You look it! You heard what Harrigan said? Does that sound as if I had enough backing?”

  “If the rest
of them are as strong for it as Harrigan, it does.”

  “As strong for it as Harrigan? Between you and me — just a whisper in your ear — I don’t think Harrigan is half as strong for it as he talks. I don’t trust him, somehow.”

  “No?”

  “Look here,” said the bos’n cautiously. “We hear there was once some trouble between you and Harrigan?”

  “Well?”

  “Would you waste much tune if somethin’ was to happen to him — say in the middle of the night, silent and unexpected?”

  “I would not! Take him by the foot and heave him into the sea. Very good idea, Hovey. Is he getting the eyes of the lads too much?”

  Hovey fenced: “He’s a landlubber, and he don’t understand sea things.

  He’s better out of the way.”

  “How’ll you do it?” asked McTee softly. “Speak out, Hovey. Would you try your own hand on Harrigan?”

  “Not me! I know a better way. There’s one that’s in the mutiny who has a hand as strong as mine — almost — and a foot as silent as the paw of a cat. I’ll give him the tip.”

  “And now for the details of the attack,” said McTee, anxious not to lay too much stress upon the destruction of Harrigan.

  “Here it is,” answered Hovey, and entered into an elaborate description of all their plans. McTee listened with faraway eyes. He heard the words, but he was thinking of the death of Harrigan.

  That invincible Irishman, after his talk with Hovey in front of the cabin of Kate, returned to the cool room of the chief engineer. The worthy Campbell, in wait for the ultimatum of White Henshaw, had been fortifying himself steadily with liquor, and by the middle of the afternoon he had reached a state in which he had no care for consequences; he would have defied all the powers upon earth and beyond it.

  The next morning, as he went up to his usual task of scrubbing the bridge, Harrigan thought he perceived a possible reason why his persecution was being neglected. It was the picture of McTee and Kate Malone leaning at the rail. McTee was content. There was no doubt of that. He leaned above Kate and talked seriously down into her face. Harrigan was mightily tempted to turn about and climb to the bridge from the other side of the deck, but he made himself march on and begin whistling a tune.

  McTee raised his head instantly, and, staring at the Irishman, he murmured a word to Kate, and she turned and regarded Harrigan with an almost painful curiosity. He was about to swagger past her when she shook off the detaining hand of McTee and ran to the Irishman.

  “Dan,” she said eagerly, and laid a hand on his arm.

  “Come back, Kate,” growled McTee. “You’ve promised me not to speak—”

  “Did you promise him not to speak with me again?” broke in Harrigan.

  “I only meant—” she began.

  “It’s little I care what you meant,” said the Irishman coldly, and he shook off her hand. “Go play with McTee. I want none of ye! After I’ve slaved for ye an’ saved ye from God knows what, ye dare to turn and make them eyes cold and distant when ye look at me? Ah-h, get back to McTee! I’m through with ye!”

  She only insisted the more: “I will speak to you, Dan!”

  “Come away, Kate,” urged McTee, grinding his teeth. “Doesn’t this prove what I told you?”

  “I don’t care what it proves,” she said hotly. “Dan, I’ve been thinking grisly things of you. I simply can’t believe them now that I look you in the face.”

  “Whisht!” said Harrigan, and his face was black. “Have you the right to doubt me?”

  She answered sadly: “I have, Dan.”

  The Irishman turned slowly away and started up for the bridge without answer. As he went, he groaned beneath his breath: “Ochone! Ochone! She’s heard!”

  He could not dream how she knew of the mutiny, but if it was carried through, he was damned in her eyes forever. What she guessed McTee must know. What McTee knew must be familiar to White Henshaw, yet Henshaw could not know, for if he did, the ring-leaders would be instantly clapped into irons. Once or twice he looked down from his work to Kate and McTee. They still leaned at the rail, talking seriously.

  And McTee was saying: “I have learned what I want to know. Every detail of the plot is in my hands. Now I am going to the cabin of White Henshaw and tell him everything. It’s the simplest way. And you’ve started a suspicion in the mind of Harrigan. He’ll spread the word to the rest of the mutineers, and they’ll be on their watch against us.”

  She made a little gesture of appeal. “I couldn’t help speaking to him, Angus. Suspecting him of such a thing is like — is like suspecting myself!”

  “Let it go. It’s done. Now I’m going up to see White Henshaw. The old man will be crazy when he hears it.”

  He found the captain giving some orders to Salvain, and waited until they were alone. Then he said: “There are about ten of us against the rest of the crew of the ship. Can we hold them in case of a mutiny?”

  He had planned this laconic statement carefully, expecting to see

  Henshaw turn pale and stammer in terror. Instead, the captain regarded

  McTee with quietly contemplative eyes.

  “So,” he murmured, “you’ve heard of the mutiny?”

  The tables were completely turned on the Scotchman. He gasped: “You have known all the time?”

  “Certainly,” said Henshaw; “I even know every word that Hovey said to you.”

  McTee turned crimson.

  “I have eyes that see everything on the ship,” went on Henshaw, as if he wished to cover the embarrassment of the Scotchman, “and I have ears which hear everything. I have lines of information tangled through the forecastle. I can almost guess what they are about to think, let alone what they will speak or do. The blockheads are always planning a mutiny, though I confess none of them have ever taken the proportions of this one. However, this will go the way of the rest.”

  “The way of the rest?” queried McTee almost stupidly.

  “Yes. They plan to hold their action till we’re close to the land. About that time I’ll call up one or two of the ring-leaders and tell them just what they have planned to do. That’ll make them think I have unknown means of meeting the mutiny. It will die.”

  McTee sat down, loosened his shirt at the throat, and gaped upon

  Henshaw as a child might gape upon a magician.

  “I don’t blame you for taking a day to think over the temptation,” smiled the old buccaneer. “The gold I showed you would have tempted any man. But I’m glad you came to me. I expected you last night. It took you a little longer to settle the details in your mind, eh?”

  “Henshaw, I feel like a yellow dog!”

  “Come! Come! You’re a man after my own heart. You took the temptation in your hand — you looked it over — and then you turned away from it. Well, and suppose the mutiny should actually come to the breaking point; they would be right in thinking I have means of fighting them. I have no firearms on the ship; they know that. They don’t know that I have these.”

  He went into the next room and returned carrying a heavy box. This he placed on the desk and took a small, heavy ball of metal from it.

  “A bomb?” queried McTee.

  “It is. The moment a group gathers, one of these tossed among them will end the mutiny the moment it begins.”

  McTee handed back the bomb in silence. There was something about this cold-blooded way of speaking of death which was not cruelty — it was something greater — it was an absolute disregard of life.

  “Of course,” said Henshaw, as he came back from depositing the box in the next room, “there are only half a dozen of those bombs, but that will be enough. The explosion of a couple of them would just about wreck the deck. However, the mutiny will never reach the point of action. I’ll see to that. What always ties the hands of the crew is that it lacks real leaders. Hovey, for instance, will turn to water when I say three words about the mutiny to him.”

  “But Harrigan,” said McTee quietly,
“will not.”

  “The Irishman!” Henshaw muttered. “I forgot. McTee, I’m getting old!”

  “Only careless,” answered the other, “but it’s a bad thing to be careless where Harrigan is concerned. A man like that, Henshaw, could lead your mutineers, and lead them well. Hovey told me that every one of the crew looks up to the Irishman.”

  “He’s got to be crippled — or put out of the way,” stated Henshaw calmly. “I was a fool. I forgot about Harrigan.”

  “It may be,” said McTee, “that he’ll be put out of the way tonight.”

  “McTee, I begin to see that you have brains.”

  The latter waved the sinister compliment aside.

  “Suppose the little — er — experiment fails? Doesn’t it occur to you that that message might be written out and sent to Campbell?”

  The captain changed color, and his eyes shifted.

  “I’ve told you—” he began.

  “Nonsense,” said McTee. “I’ll write the thing, if you want, and all you’ll have to do is to sign it.”

  “Would that make any difference?” asked Henshaw wistfully.

  “Of course,” said McTee. “Here we go. You’ve got to do something to tame Harrigan, captain, or there’ll be the deuce to pay.”

  And as he spoke, he picked up pen and paper and began to write, Henshaw in the meantime walking to the door in an agony of apprehension as if he expected to see the dreaded figure of Sloan appear. McTee wrote:

  From Captain Henshaw to Chief Engineer Douglas Campbell

  Sir:

  On the receipt of this order, you will at once place Daniel Harrigan at work passing coal, beginning this day with a double shift, and continuing hereafter one shift a day.

  (Signed)

  “Here you are, captain,” he called, and Henshaw turned reluctantly from the door and sat down at the table.

  “Bad luck’s in it,” he muttered, “but something has to be done — something has to be done!”

  He wrote: “Captain Hensh—” but at this point the voice of Sloan spoke from the open door.