Part 36 (1/2)
”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 was.h.i.+ng my soul out for you. It's Hovey and the little j.a.p, 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+rt, when three cras.h.i.+ng, 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.
CHAPTER 30
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 ash.o.r.e in the lifeboats. Over their clamor and cursing broke two voices, one accusing in a deep ba.s.s 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.