“God!” said the bos’n, and started
back.
The head remained where he had placed it, the eyes
staring straight up at the ceiling.
“God!” whispered the bos’n again,
and ran from the forecastle.
In time—it seemed hours—Harrigan
heard many voices approaching. McTee’s
bass was not among them, but he knew that McTee was
coming, and Harrigan wondered whether he would have
the strength to refuse to obey and accept the fate
of the mutineer; or whether terror would overwhelm
him and he would drop to his knees and beg for mercy.
He had once seen a sight as horrible. The voices
swept closer. McTee was bringing all the available
crew to watch the surrender, and Harrigan prayed with
all his soul to a nameless deity for strength.
Something stopped in the Irishman. It was not
his heart, but something as vital. The very movement
of the earth seemed to be suspended when the great
form blocked the door to the forecastle and the ringing
voice called: “Harrigan!”
At the summons Harrigan’s jaw fell loosely like
that of an exhausted distance-runner, and long-suppressed
words grew achingly large in his throat.
“I’ve had enough!” he groaned.
“Harrigan!” thundered the captain, and
Harrigan knew that his attempted speech had been merely
a silent wish.
“God help me!” he whispered hoarsely,
and in response to that brief prayer a warm pulse
of strength flooded through him. He sprang to
his feet.
“I refuse to work!” he cried, and this
time the sound echoed back against his ears.
There was a long pause.
“Mutiny!” said McTee at last, and his
voice was harsh with the knowledge of his failure.
“Bring him outside in the open. I’ll
deal with him!”
He retreated from the door, but before any of the
sailors could go in to fulfill the order, Harrigan
walked of his own accord out onto the deck. The
wind on his face was sweet and keen; the vapors blew
from eyes and brain. He was himself again, weaker,
but himself. He saw the circle of wondering,
awe-stricken faces; he saw McTee standing with folded
arms.
“Mutiny on the high seas,” the captain
was saying, “is as bad as murder on dry land.
I could swing you by the neck from the mast for this,
Harrigan, and every court would uphold me. Or
I can throw you into the irons and leave your trial
until we touch port. But—stand back!”
At the wave of his hand the circle spread. McTee
stepped close to Harrigan.
“I could do all that I’ve said, but why
should I waste you on a prison when there’s
a chance that I can use for myself? Harrigan,
will you stand up to me, man to man, and fist to fist,
fighting fair and square without advantage, and then
if I thrash you, will you be my man? If I beat
you, will you swear to follow me, to do my bidding?
Harrigan, if I have you to work for me—I’ll
be king of the south seas!”
