by Max Brand
“Money gone,” said Hall. “Gimme!” And he held out his hand.
The fireman, with a vast grin, delved his hand into the bag and brought it forth loaded with gold, which Hall took without a word and returned to his game of rolling dice, one throw at five hundred dollars a throw. In ten minutes he went back to the fireman with a double handful of corns.
“Principal an’ interest,” grunted the big sailor, and dumped his gold into the canvas bag which, filled to overflowing, spilled a dozen coins upon the floor.
The fireman, with a groan of dull content, slipped prone on the floor and was instantly asleep, embracing the canvas bag in both arms. Every man in the crew was in a somewhat similar condition, saving Hovey, with his gray-blue, steady eyes, and Cochrane, with his glittering, shifty black. These two watched the rest descend toward swinish unconsciousness; they saw, and waited coolly, and now and then glanced at each other with faint smiles of understanding.
Somewhere in the waist of the ship Jacob Flint was singing shrill songs of infinite profanity, but otherwise there was no sound on the Heron as the sun went down, and all night long the old freighter wallowed sluggishly up and down on the waves, as if she waited for dawn before resuming her journey toward the shore.
There was a wisdom, however, in Hovey’s laxness of discipline during the first day of his mastery. The next morning the men slept late, sprawling about the deck, and Hovey and Cochrane first roused ominous Jacob Flint and Sam Hall and Kyle. With this nucleus of five mighty men, men to be feared on land or sea, Hovey started to rouse the rest of the mutineers. They woke cursing and sad of stomach and head, and to the first orders they responded with cursing; the reply was a sledge-hammer blow from the fist of Hall or Kyle, and while the man lay on the deck, it was explained curtly and forcibly to him that while the Heron was at sea, he would have to obey Bos’n Hovey; but as soon as the ship reached land, each man could be his own master.
First of all the firemen were commanded to the hole to get up steam, but when this was done, it was found that there was some minor trouble with the machinery. An engineer was needed; Hovey, with Cochrane, Flint and Hall beside him, sent for Campbell, and retired to the cabin to await his coming.
There sat the body of Fritz Klopp as it had remained ever since the beginning of the revels the day before, grinning up at the ceiling. Hall and Flint raised the body, and the clutching fingers were found to be frozen by death immovably around a whole handful of gold. As Hall suggested, this would serve as lead to take him to the bottom of the sea. The others applauded the thought, and with his hand still full of gold, they carried Fritz Klopp to the rail and dumped him into the water.
As they re-entered the cabin, Campbell was kicked in from the opposite door. His hands were manacled behind him, and the force of the kick, together with a sway of the ship, threw him off his balance. He crashed on his face at the feet of Hovey. The bos’n grew positively pale with pleasure. He selected a cigar from an open box on the table and lighted it leisurely.
At last he ordered: “Pick him up.”
The chief engineer was jerked to his feet and stood with a trickle of blood running down from his split lip. His face was rather purple than red, and the dark pouches underneath his eyes told the horror of the night he had passed. Nevertheless, the eyes themselves were bright.
Far away, half heard, and drowned by any noise near at hand, was a sound of singing. It was Black McTee in the wireless house, half maddened by thirst and hunger and despair, and singing in defiance songs of bonny Scotland.
“There’s been trouble aboard, chief,” he said, “but now trouble’s over. All over! We want you to take charge of the engines again and bring us to shore.”
Campbell waited, not as if he had not heard. In spite of himself, Hovey stirred a trifle and grew uneasy. From a corner of the room he picked up a canvas bag and dropped it with a melodious jingling on the table in front of the engineer.
“This is your share,” he said.
Campbell smiled faintly.
“And this,” said Hovey, with a glance at his companions.
The smile had not altered on the lips of the Scotchman.
“With this money,” said Hovey, forcing himself to remain calm, “you can retire from active work. You can get yourself a little place on the coast somewhere” — he had heard Campbell name some of his dreams— “and have a little cellar full of the right stuff, and have your friends run out to see you now an’ then, an’ talk over things that’re goin’ on at sea — where you ain’t.”
Here he placed a third bag of money on the table.
“You could do all that and more, chief — a lot more — with this money.”
Hovey cut the lace which tied the mouth of one of the bags; he poured the gleaming contents across the table.
“Well?” he asked softly.
“Damn you!” whispered Campbell, and then, “You fool, am I not Scotch?”
“At least,” went on the bos’n easily, “think it over, chief, and while you’re thinkin’, what d’you say to a drop of the real stuff?”
Campbell had not tasted either food or liquid since early the day before, and his eyes were moist as they stared at the two bottles.
“Set his hands free,” said Hovey, “so that the chief can drink. We ain’t half-bad fellers, Campbell; but we’ve got good cause for raisin’ the hell you’ve seen on the Heron.”
While he spoke, the arms of Campbell were set free, and glasses were shoved toward him, one full of Scotch and the other of seltzer. The mutineers were already raising their drinks for a toast when Campbell took his with a violently trembling hand. But as he lifted the liquor, he was fully conscious for the first time of a singing which had been faint in the air for some time, the songs of Black McTee in the wireless house, and now the big-throated Scotchman swung into a new air, plaintive and rapid in cadence, a death song and a war song at once, the speech of Bruce before Bannockburn, as Burns conceived it. Loud and true rang the voice of Black McTee, breaker of men:
“Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots wham Bruce hae aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!”
And the hand of Campbell checked on its way to his lips. “We’re lookin’ in your eyes, chief,” said Hovey. And the song broke in:
“Wha would be a traitor slave,
Let him turn and flee!”
Campbell was staring at the wall like one who sees a vision but cannot make out its meaning.
The voice of Black McTee swelled high and strong:
“Wha for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Freemen stand and freemen fa’,
Let him on wi’ me!”
And the glass dropped from the lips of the Scotchman. It crashed against the hard floor. Broad Scotch was on his tongue.
“I canna drink wi’ murderers!” he cried.
“Damn you!” said Hovey, and drove his fist into Campbell’s face, hurling him to the deck.
The manacles were clapped on his wrists again; he was dragged once more to his feet.
“Take him out,” said Hovey to the grinning sailors who had lingered in the door. “Take him back to the waist of the ship before the wireless house. Wait for me there. And see that Van Roos and Borgson are brought there also.”
CHAPTER 34
AS CAMPBELL WAS dragged away, the bos’n said to his companions: “Now, lads, you see where Campbell stands!”
They growled for answer.
“But I’ll get him!” went on Hovey. “I’m going to kill Van Roos and Borgson by inches before his eyes. And when he sees ’em die — they’ll have to die, anyway, before we reach shore — Campbell will be water in our hands. He’ll see ’em die, an’ them in the wireless house will see ’em die. Their throats are thick with thirst by now. We’ll show ’em water an’ food, an’ offer it to ’em if they’ll give up Henshaw. If they won’t, we’ll show ’em how we’ll
kill ’em when they’re too weak to resist. They’ll see a sample in Van Roos and Borgson. Every yell they let out’ll be an argument for us. We’ll have Henshaw before the day’s done.”
Sam Hall pushed his thick fingers slowly through his hair, stupefied by this careful cruelty, and even the one eye of Jacob Flint grew dim, but Garry Cochrane slapped the bos’n on the shoulder heartily.
“Jerry,” he said, “you got the makin’s of a great man. Let’s go start the fun.”
On the way aft they passed the firemen sprawling on the shady side of the deck. They stumbled to their feet at sight of Hovey, and swore volubly that the hole of the ship was too hot for a man to live in it five minutes. Hovey passed them without a word. He had to tend to Campbell now, and without an engineer it was useless to work men in the fireroom.
First of all he had two buckets of water carried aft and placed just below the edge of the raised deck which supported the wireless house. There were dippers floating invitingly on the surface of the water in each bucket. Then from the galley of the ship Kamasura and Shida, the cabin boys, brought out steaming meats and cut loaves of bread and displayed the feast near the buckets of water. Upon this outlay gazed the famine-stricken fugitives, Sloan, McTee and Harrigan; Kate did not see, for she was caring for the sick captain. Hovey advanced and made a speech.
“We’re actin’ generous and open to you,” he began. “We’re offerin’ you food an’ water — all you want — in exchange for White Henshaw. He sold his soul to hell long ago, an’ we’ve come to claim payment. It’s overdue, that’s what it is!”
“Aye, aye!” came a chorus of yells from the sailors. “White Henshaw’s overdue.”
“Look at this here water,” went on Hovey, with a tempting wave of his hand. “Why not take this up an’ help yourselves — after you’ve given us Henshaw?”
Sloan crowded in between Harrigan and McTee; his voice was a slavering murmur: “For pity’s sake, boys, what we going to do?”
Harrigan and the big Scot exchanged glances. Faintly and slowly they smiled. There was a profound mutual understanding in that smile.
“I’m dying,” went on Sloan eagerly and still in that slavering voice. “I’m burnin’ up inside. For God’s sake let ’em take him and finish him off!”
And always as he spoke his quick eyes went back and forth from face to face. They had neither eye nor voice for him. They turned their attention back to Hovey, who now spoke again hastily.
“But if you don’t give us Henshaw, we’ll take him, anyway. In one more day — or maybe two at the most — we’ll come an’ get you — understand? An’ what we’ll do to you when we get you will be this!”
He gestured over his shoulder. Eric Borgson was being led out on the deck by some of the crew.
“Look him over, Cap’n McTee. He’s a big man, an’ we’re goin’ to kill him by inches. So we’re goin’ to finish Van Roos — the same way. Speak out, lads; d’you want to die like these two are goin’ to die, or will you turn over Henshaw — who needs killin’?”
McTee smiled benevolently down upon the upturned, furious faces of the mutineers, and muttered: “Harrigan, I could drink blood.”
“An’ lick your lips afther it,” groaned the Irishman softly. “An’ so could I, Angus! They’re startin’ their devil work. Let’s go inside. I can’t be standing the sight of it, McTee.”
“Go inside an’ let ’em rush the wireless house?” said McTee incredulously. “No, lad. We got to stay an’ watch. Besides, maybe this is the way we’ll all die — after we’re too weak to fight ’em. And I’m rather curious to learn just how I’ll die; I’ve always been!”
They were binding Borgson face down on the hatch.
“Look,” said Harrigan. “Maybe it ain’t goin’ to be so bad as we thought. They’re just goin’ to lick Borgson the way he licked the Jap.”
“They’ll do more,” replied McTee, shaking his head. “Henshaw and Borgson and Van Roos have really put those wild men through hell, and now they’re going to get it back with interest.”
In the meantime little Kamasura stepped out from the crowd. He was naked to the waist, for the raw incisions which the lash had left would not bear the weight of clothes. He carried the blacksnake in his hands, drawing it caressingly through his hands as Borgson had done. Now the tying of Borgson was completed, and the sailors spread back in a loose circle to watch their entertainment.
The Japanese took his distance carefully, shifting repeatedly a matter of inches to make sure that no stroke would be wasted. Then he whirled the blacksnake over his head. They could see Borgson wince as the lash sang above him, and the muscles of his bare back flexed and stood up in knots that glistened under the sunlight. But the stroke did not fall. Kamasura had learned the lesson of creating suspense from the very man he was now about to torture. Harrigan bowed his head in his hands.
“I can’t look, McTee,” he muttered. “I’m sick inside — sick — sick!”
The last words came in a growl from the hollow of his throat. The blacksnake whirled through the air again and fell with a sharp slap like two broad hands clapped together, but Borgson did not cry out. His body writhed mutely, and down his back appeared a red mark. The whip whirled again and fell, this time bringing a stifled curse for a response. Once more it whirled, and this time merely cracked in the air. Again and again an idle snap in the air. Broken by that grim suspense, Borgson yelled in terror.
Kamasura laughed and glanced at the circle of sailors like a ringmaster in a circus in search of applause. The whip now whirled rapidly over his head and fell again and again, and every stroke brought a fresh and louder scream from the mate. Another sound, rhythmic and barbarous, punctuated those shrieks of anguish. It was the singing of Kamasura, who as he wielded the lash remembered a chant of his native land and shouted it now in time with the blows of the blacksnake.
On the upper deck Sloan lay prone on his face, sobbing with terror; Harrigan kept his face hid and clutched at his head with both hands; McTee stared straight down upon the scene of the torture with burning eyes. Inside the wheelhouse Kate crouched beside the bunk on which Henshaw was stretched, staring straight above his head. The fever had deprived him of the last of his senses.
“Your hands!” he muttered at length.
She placed them upon his forehead. She had done that repeatedly during the past day, and each time the effect had been marvelously soothing to the old man. Now at the touch he drew a deep breath of relief.
“Even in hell,” he whispered at length— “even in hell you come to me,
Beatrice! I knew you would!”
He caught her hands at the wrists; his fingers, despite his fever, were deadly cold, and a chill ate into her blood.
“I hear them yelling — the souls of the damned,” he said quietly. “You can’t hear it?”
“No, no!” she said. “I cannot hear!”
“Of course not,” he went on with the same lack of emotion; “for, you see, you’ve come from heaven, and the coolness of heaven is in your hands, Beatrice. Put them against my temples, so! For every bit of the love I have given you you are permitted to repay me with coolness — coolness and comfort in hell!”
Suddenly he broke into exultant laughter, a sound more terrible than the wild wails from the deck.
“See!” he said, and his eyes twinkled as he stretched out a gaunt arm toward a corner of the room. “There’s Johnny Carson lying naked on a bed of blue fire. Ha, ha, ha! Have you been waiting long for me to come, lad?”
She shut out the hungry, hideous light of his eyes with the palms of her hands. Now the screaming on the deck ceased abruptly.
“Beatrice!” he cried with a sudden terror.
“Yes,” answered Kate.
“Ah,” he said, and patted her hands endearingly. “When the silence came, I feared maybe you were leaving me. You won’t do that?”
“No. I’ll stay.”
“So! Then I’ll sleep. But waken me when they begin yelling ag
ain. They thought I’d come down to the same hell I sent them to, and that they’d watch me burn. But I fooled ’em, Beatrice, by loving you. You’re the chip of wood that keeps me afloat — afloat — afloat—”
And he drifted into sleep, while she leaned against the bunk, almost unconscious from fear and exhaustion.
CHAPTER 35
KAMASURA, IN NOWISE loath to bring his work to an end, stood back and laid on the whip with redoubled vigor. The lash spatted sharply against the raw and bleeding flesh. The screams sank into moans, and the moans in turn declined to a mere horrible gasping of the breath. Even this ceased at length, and the quivering of the body stopped. Kamasura leaned over and slipped his hand under the body in the region of the heart. When he straightened up again, he made a gesture of finality with his crimsoned hands. The mate was dead.
They cut his body loose at once and pitched him over the rail, then turned their attention to Van Roos. Sam Hall was the inspired man this time, and according to his directions they lashed the body of the big mate on the same blood-spotted hatch cover where Borgson had lain a moment before, but this time the victim was placed upon his back. Hall himself attended to the tying of Van Roos’s head, and he performed his work so ably that the mate could not change his position in the least particle. He was literally swathed in ropes; so much so, in fact, that it was difficult to see how he could be tormented. Sam Hall, however, insisted that this was what he wanted, and the crew consented to let him do his work.
“You’ve heard something, an’ you’ve seen something,” said Hovey at this juncture to Campbell; “but what you’ve seen and heard isn’t nothin’ to what’ll happen to you unless you start handling the engines of the Heron. Why, Campbell, I’m goin’ to give you to the firemen!”