“They’ve tackled you already?”
Harrigan took out the knife and waved it in the faint
starlight.
“They did,” he said jauntily, “and
they left this behind them as a token.”
“Listen,” said McTee; “it’s
not for nothing that men call me Black, but all evening
I’ve been remembering the time when we took hands
in the trough of the sea. I’ve thought
of that, Harrigan, and it made me weak inside—”
He paused, but Harrigan would not speak.
“Because I planned your death tonight, Dan.”
“Angus, the steel ain’t been sharpened
that can kill me.”
“Don’t be too confident. Get every
word I say. I’m washing my soul out for
you. It’s Hovey and the little Jap, Kamasura,
that you’ll have to guard against.”
“I know ’em both.”
“D’you mean to say—”
“No, I didn’t make ’em confess,
but I saw ’em lookin’ at each other.
What made you hitch up with swine like them? Was
it because of—her?”
“Yes.”
“Then I forgive you for it. Angus, I got
a sort of a desire to shake hands with you. There’s
nothin’ but swine an’ snakes aboard the
Heron. I’d like to feel the grip of a man’s
hand.”
They fumbled in the dark and then their hands met.
They retained that grasp till the ship sank twice
to the deep shadow of the trough and swung up again
to the crest.
“There’s no peace between us till she’s
out of the way,” muttered Harrigan at last.
“What d’you say, Angus?”
“Harrigan, there are times when you’re
a poet. Strip!”
The Irishman was tearing off his shirt, when three
crashing, rattling explosions sent a shudder through
the Heron, and his arms dropped nervelessly.
“Where was it?” gasped Harrigan.
“Forward,” answered McTee.
“Kate!” they cried in the same breath,
and rushed for the main cabin.
The decks were already thick with half-dressed sailors.
Here and there lanterns gleamed, and what they showed
was the three lifeboats of the Heron—two
on one side of the cabin and one on the other—blown
into matchwood. Only shapeless fragments and
bundles of kindling wood dangled from the davits.
Captain Henshaw, cool and calm in his white clothes,
stood with folded arms examining the wreckage on one
side.
The sailors from the forecastle went here and there,
muttering, growling surlily; for a shrewd blow had
been struck at their plan of mutiny, the last item
of which was to abandon the Heron off a deserted coast
and then row ashore in the lifeboats. Over their
clamor and cursing broke two voices, one accusing
in a deep bass and the other protesting innocence
in a harsh treble. It was the third mate, Eric
Borgson, who approached carrying little Kamasura under
his arm like a bundle.
“Here’s the little devil who done the
work,” he snarled, and flung Kamasura at the
feet of White Henshaw.
