freshens, you beat up against it. The nearer you are, the bigger loads I can
bring off. Goodby.”
He held out his hand. The captain shook it, and was reluctant to let go. He
seemed to cling to it as a drowning sailor clings to a life buoy.
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“How do I know you will come back in the morning?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s it!” cried the mate. “How do we know but what he’s skinning out
to save his own hide?”
McCoy did not speak. He looked at them sweetly and benignantly, and it seemed
to them that they received a message from his tremendous certitude of soul.
The captain released his hand, and, with a last sweeping glance that embraced
the crew in its benediction, McCoy went over the rail and descended into his
canoe.
The wind freshened, and the Pyrenees, despite the foulness of her bottom, won
half a dozen miles away from the westerly current. At daylight, with Pitcairn
three miles to windward, Captain Davenport made out two canoes coming off to
him. Again McCoy clambered up the side and dropped over the rail to the hot
deck. He was followed by many packages of dried bananas, each package wrapped
in dry leaves.
“Now, Captain,” he said, “swing the yards and drive for dear life. You see, I
am no navigator,” he explained a few minutes later, as he stood by the captain
aft, the latter with gaze wandering from aloft to overside as he estimated the
Pyrenees’ speed. “You must fetch her to Mangareva. When you have picked up the
land, then I will pilot her in. What do you think she is making?”
“Eleven,” Captain Davenport answered, with a final glance at the water rushing
past.
“Eleven. Let me see, if she keeps up that gait, we’ll sight Mangareva between
eight and nine o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll have her on the beach by ten or
by eleven at latest. And then your troubles will be all over.”
It almost seemed to the captain that the blissful moment had already arrived,
such was the persuasive convincingness of McCoy.
Captain Davenport had been under the fearful strain of navigating his burning
ship for over two weeks, and he was beginning to feel that he had had enough.
A heavier flaw of wind struck the back of his neck and whistled by his ears.
He measured the weight of it, and looked quickly overside.
“The wind is making all the time,” he announced. “The old girl’s doing nearer
twelve than eleven right now. If this keeps up, we’ll be shortening down
tonight.”
All day the Pyrenees, carrying her load of living fire, tore across the
foaming sea. By nightfall, royals and topgallantsails were in, and she flew on
into the darkness, with great, crested seas roaring after her. The auspicious
wind had had its effect, and fore and aft a visible brightening was apparent.
In the second dog-watch some careless soul started a song, and by eight bells
the whole crew was singing.
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Captain Davenport had his blankets brought up and spread on top the house.
“I’ve forgotten what sleep is,” he explained to McCoy. “I’m all in. But give
me a call at any time you think necessary.”
At three in the morning he was aroused by a gentle tugging at his arm. He sat
up quickly, bracing himself against the skylight, stupid yet from his heavy
sleep. The wind was thrumming its war song in the rigging, and a wild sea was
buffeting the PYRENEES. Amidships she was wallowing first one rail under and
then the other, flooding the waist more often than not. ‘mcCoy was shouting
something he could not hear. He reached out, clutched the other by the
shoulder, and drew him close so that his own ear was close to the other’s
lips.
“It’s three o’clock,” came McCoy’s voice, still retaining its dovelike
quality, but curiously muffled, as if from a long way off. “We’ve run two
hundred and fifty. Crescent Island is only thirty miles away, somewhere there
dead ahead. There’s no lights on it. If we keep running, we’ll pile up, and
lose ourselves as well as the ship.”
“What d’ ye think–heave to?”
“Yes; heave to till daylight. It will only put us back four hours.”
So the Pyrenees, with her cargo of fire, was hove to, bitting the teeth of the
gale and fighting and smashing the pounding seas. She was a shell, filled
with a conflagration, and on the outside of the shell, clinging precariously,
the little motes of men, by pull and haul, helped her in the battle.
“It is most unusual, this gale,” McCoy told the captain, in the lee of the
cabin. “By rights there should be no gale at this time of the year. But
everything about the weather has been unusual. There has been a stoppage of
the trades, and now it’s howling right out of the trade quarter.” He waved his
hand into the darkness, as if his vision could dimly penetrate for hundreds of
miles. “It is off to the westward. There is something big making off there
somewhere–a hurricane or something. We’re lucky to be so far to the eastward.
But this is only a little blow,” he added. “It can’t last. I can tell you that
much.”
By daylight the gale had eased down to normal. But daylight revealed a new
danger. It had come on thick. The sea was covered by a fog, or, rather, by a
pearly mist that was fog-like in density, in so far as it obstructed vision,
but that was no more than a film on the sea, for the sun shot it through and
filled it with a glowing radiance.
The deck of the Pyrenees was making more smoke than on the preceding day, and
the cheerfulness of officers and crew had vanished. In the lee of the galley
the cabin boy could be heard whimpering. It was his first voyage, and the fear
of death was at his heart. The captain wandered about like a lost soul,
nervously chewing his mustache, scowling, unable to make up his mind what to
do.
“What do you think?” he asked, pausing by the side of McCoy, who was making a
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breakfast off fried bananas and a mug of water.
McCoy finished the last banana, drained the mug, and looked slowly around. In
his eyes was a smile of tenderness as he said:
“Well, Captain, we might as well drive as burn. Your decks are not going to
hold out forever. They are hotter this morning. You haven’t a pair of shoes I
can wear? It is getting uncomfortable for my bare feet.”
The Pyrenees shipped two heavy seas as she was swung off and put once more
before it, and the first mate expressed a desire to have all that water down
in the hold, if only it could be introduced without taking off the hatches.
‘mcCoy ducked his head into the binnacle and watched the course set.
“I’d hold her up some more, Captain,” he said. “She’s been making drift when
hove to.”
“I’ve set it to a point higher already,” was the answer. “Isn’t that enough?”
“I’d make it two points, Captain. This bit of a blow kicked that westerly
current ahead faster than you imagine.”
Captain Davenport compromised on a point and a half, and then went aloft,
accompanied by McCoy and the first mate, to keep a lookout for land. Sail had
been made, so that the Pyrenees was doing ten knots. The following sea was
dying down rapidly. There was no break in the pearly fog, and by ten o’clock
Captain Davenport was growing nervous. Al l hands were at their stations,
ready, at the first warning of land ahead, to spring like fiends to the task
of bringing the Pyrenees up on the wind. That land ahead, a surf-washed outer
reef, would be perilously close when it revealed itself in such a fog.
Another hour passed. The three watchers aloft stared intently into the pearly
radiance.”What if we miss Mangareva?” Captain Davenport asked abruptly.
McCoy, without shifting his gaze, answered softly:
“Why, let her drive, captain. That is all we can do. All the Paumotus are
before us. We can drive for a thousand miles through reefs and atolls. We are
bound to fetch up somewhere.”
“Then drive it is.” Captain Davenport evidenced his intention of descending to
the deck. “We’ve missed Mangareva. God knows where the next land is. I wish
I’d held her up that other half-point,” he confessed a moment later. “This
cursed current plays the devil with a navigator.”
“The old navigators called the Paumotus the Dangerous Archipelago,” McCoy
said, when they had regained the poop. “This very current was partly
responsible for that name.”
“I was talking with a sailor chap in Sydney, once,” said Mr. Konig. “He’d been
trading in the Paumotus. He told me insurance was eighteen per cent. Is that