Part 35 (1/2)

”I understand,” said McTee.

The captain raised his lantern again and shone it in the eyes of McTee.

”Do you understand?” he queried. ”Do you?”

And he broke again into the harsh laughter. McTee started back with a scowl.

”What's the mystery, captain? What's the secret you're laughing about?”

Again Henshaw chuckled.

”You're a curious man, McTee. Well, well! What am I laughing about?

Money always makes me want to laugh, and now I'm laughing about money.

Do you understand that? No, you don't. Perhaps you will before long.

Patience, my friend!”

For some reason the blood of McTee grew cold and colder as he listened.

His original suspicion of insanity grew weaker. He was being mocked, and the mad do not mock.

”So tonight is the last night of Harrigan, eh?” said Henshaw suddenly.

”In the name of G.o.d,” said McTee, deeply shaken, ”why do you speak of that? Yes, tonight he dies!”

”Alone!” said Henshaw in a changed voice. ”He dies alone! It must be a grim thing to die alone at sea--to slip into the black water--to drink the salt--a little struggle--and then the light goes out. So!”

He s.h.i.+vered and folded his arms. He seemed to be embracing himself to find warmth.

”But to die in the middle of the ocean with many men around you,” he went on, speaking half to himself, ”that would not be so bad. What do you say, McTee?”

But McTee was not in a mood for speaking. He only stared, fascinated and dumb. Henshaw continued: ”In the middle of night, with the engines thrumming, and the lights burning in every port, suppose a s.h.i.+p should put her nose under the surface and dive for the bottom! The men are singing in the forecastle, and suddenly their song goes out. The captain is in the wheelhouse. He is dreaming of his home town, maybe, when he sees the black waters rising over the prow. He thinks it is a dream and rubs his eyes. Before he can look again, the waves are upon him. There is no alarm; the wireless, perhaps, is broken; the boats, perhaps, are useless; and so the brave s.h.i.+p dives down to Davy Jones's locker with all on board, and the next minute the waves wash over the spot and rub out all memory of those who died there. Well, well, McTee, there's a way of dying that would please White Henshaw more than a death in a bed at a home port, with the landsharks sitting round your bed grinning and nodding out your minutes of life. Ha?”

But Black McTee, like a frightened child caught in a dark room, turned and fled in shameless fear into the deep night. Not till he was far aft did he stop in a quiet place to think of Harrigan dying alone, choking in the black water.

But Harrigan was far from fear. He lay on the deck above the forecastle, cradled by the swing of the bows. He shook away the lurking horror of the mutiny and gave himself up to peace.

In the midst of his sleep he dreamed of lying in a pitch-dark room and staring up at a brilliant point of light, like a dark lantern partially unshuttered. And suddenly Harrigan woke, and looking up, he caught a flas.h.i.+ng point of light directly above his eyes. In another moment he was aware of the dark figure of a man crouched beside him, and then he knew that the light which glittered over his head was the s.h.i.+mmer of the stars against a steel blade.

The knife, as he stared, jerked up and then down with a sweep; Harrigan shot up his hand to meet the blow, and his grip fastened on a wrist.

Wrenching on that wrist, he jerked himself to his knees, and the knife clattered on the deck, but at the same instant the other man--a dim figure which he could barely make out in the thick night--rushed on him, a shoulder struck against his chest, and he was thrown sprawling on the deck, sliding with the toss of the deck underneath the rail. He would have fallen overboard had he not kept his grip on that wrist, and as he reached the perilous edge, the other man jerked back to free his arm.

He succeeded, but the effort checked the slide of Harrigan's great body, and the next instant the Irishman was on his feet. He drove at the elusive figure with his balled fist, but the other ducked beneath the blow and fled down the ladder. Harrigan stopped only long enough to sweep up the fallen knife before he followed, but when he reached the edge of the deck, the waist of the s.h.i.+p extending back to the main cabin was empty. The man, whoever he was, must have fled into the forecastle.

Harrigan knew that if one of the sailors had dared to attack him, he must be suspected, and if he was suspected by one, that one would poison the minds of a dozen others in a short time. It was even possible that someone in authority had given orders for his death. With this in mind he climbed down the ladder and opened the door of the forecastle. He found the sailors sitting in a loose circle on the floor rolling battered dice out of a time-blackened leather box.

Harrigan sat down on the edge of his bunk, produced the captured knife, and commenced to sharpen it slowly, without ostentation, on the sole of his shoe. It was already of a razor keenness. It was a carving knife evidently stolen from the galley of the s.h.i.+p; it had been ground so often that the steel which remained was thin and narrow. A sharp blow with that knife would drive it to the handle through human flesh. As he pa.s.sed it slowly back and forth across his shoe, Harrigan watched the faces of the others with a side glance.