right?”
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85
McCoy smiled and nodded.
“Except that they don’t insure,” he explained. “The owners write off twenty
per cent of the cost of their schooners each year.”
“My God!” Captain Davenport groaned. “That makes the life of a schooner only
five years!” He shook his head sadly, murmuring, “Bad waters! Bad waters!”
Again they went into the cabin to consult the big general chart; but the
poisonous vapors drove them coughing and gasping on deck.
“Here is Moerenhout Island,” Captain Davenport pointed it out on the chart,
which he had spread on the house. “It can’t be more than a hundred miles to
leeward.”
“A hundred and ten.” ‘mcCoy shook his head doubtfully. “It might be done, but
it is very difficult. I might beach her, and then again I might put her on the
reef. A bad place, a very bad place.”
“We’ll take the chance,” was Captain Davenport’s decision, as he set about
working out the course.
Sail was shortened early in the afternoon, to avoid running past in the night;
and in the second dog-watch the crew manifested its regained cheerfulness.
Land was so very near, and their troubles would be over in the morning.
But morning broke clear, with a blazing tropic sun. The southeast trade had
swung around to the eastward, and was driving the PYRENEES through the water
at an eight-knot clip. Captain Davenport worked up his dead reckoning,
allowing generously for drift, and announced Moerenhout Island to be not more
than ten miles off. The Pyrenees sailed the ten miles; she sailed ten miles
more; and the lookouts at the three mastheads saw naught but the naked,
sun-washed sea.
“But the land is there, I tell you,” Captain Davenport shouted to them from
the poop.
McCoy smiled soothingly, but the captain glared about him like a madman,
fetched his sextant, and took a chronometer sight.
“I knew I was right, he almost shouted, when he had worked up the observation.
“Twenty-one, fifty-five, south; one-thirty-six, two, west. There you are.
We’re eight miles to windward yet. What did you make it out, Mr. Konig?”
The first mate glanced at his own figures, and said in a low voice:
“Twenty-one, fifty-five all right; but my longitude’s one-thirty-six,
forty-eight. That puts us considerably to leeward–”
But Captain Davenport ignored his figures with so contemptuous a silence as to
make Mr. Konig grit his teeth and curse savagely under his breath.
“Keep her off,” the captain ordered the man at the wheel. “Three
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86
points–steady there, as she goes!”
Then he returned to his figures and worked them over. The sweat poured from
his face. He chewed his mustache, his lips, and his pencil, staring at the
figures as a man might at a ghost. Suddenly, with a fierce, muscular outburst,
he crumpled the scribbled paper in his fist and crushed it under foot. ‘mr.
Konig grinned vindictively and turned away, while Captain Davenport leaned
against the cabin and for half an hour spoke no word, contenting himself with
gazing to leeward with an expression of musing hopelessness on his face.
“Mr. McCoy,” he broke silence abruptly. “The chart indicates a group of
islands, but not how many, off there to the north’ard, or nor’-nor’westward,
about forty miles–the Acteon Islands. What about them?”
“There are four, all low,” McCoy answered. “First to the southeast is
Matuerui–no people, no entrance to the lagoon. Then comes Tenarunga. There
used to be about a dozen people there, but they may be all gone now. Anyway,
there is no entrance for a ship–only a boat entrance, with a fathom of water.
Vehauga and Teua-raro are the other two. No entrances, no people, very low.
There is no bed for the Pyrenees in that group. She would be a total wreck.”
“Listen to that!” Captain Davenport was frantic. “No people! No entrances!
What in the devil are islands good for?
“Well, then, he barked suddenly, like an excited terrier, “the chart gives a
whole mess of islands off to the nor’west. What about them? What one has an
entrance where I can lay my ship?”
McCoy calmly considered. He did not refer to the chart. All these islands,
reefs, shoals, lagoons, entrances, and distances were marked on the chart of
his memory. He knew them as the city dweller knows his buildings, streets, and
alleys.
“Papakena and Vanavana are off there to the westward, or west-nor’westward a
hundred miles and a bit more,” he said. “One is uninhabited, and I heard that
the people on the other had gone off to Cadmus Island. Anyway, neither lagoon
has an entrance. Ahunui is another hundred miles on to the nor’west. No
entrance, no people.”
“Well, forty miles beyond them are two islands?” Captain Davenport queried,
raising his head from the chart.
McCoy shook his head.
“Paros and Manuhungi–no entrances, no people. Nengo-Nengo is forty miles
beyond them, in turn, and it has no people and no entrance. But there is Hao
Island. It is just the place. The lagoon is thirty miles long and five miles
wide. There are plenty of people. You can usually find water. And any ship in
the world can go through the entrance.”
He ceased and gazed solicitously at Captain Davenport, who, bending over the
chart with a pair of dividers in hand, had just emitted a low groan.
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“Is there any lagoon with an entrance anywhere nearer than Hao Island?” he
asked.
“No, Captain; that is the nearest.”
“Well, it’s three hundred and forty miles.” Captain Davenport was speaking
very slowly, with decision. “I won’t risk the responsibility of all these
lives. I’ll wreck her on the Acteons. And she’s a good ship, too,” he added
regretfully, after altering the course, this time making more allowance than
ever for the westerly current.
An hour later the sky was overcast. The southeast trade still held, but the
ocean was a checker board of squalls.
“We’ll be there by one o’clock,” Captain Davenport announced confidently. “By
two o’clock at the outside. ‘mcCoy, you put her ashore on the one where the
people are.”
The sun did not appear again, nor, at one o’clock, was any land to be seen.
Captain Davenport looked astern at the Pyrenees’ canting wake.
“Good Lord!” he cried. “An easterly current? Look at that!”
Mr. Konig was incredulous. ‘mcCoy was noncommittal, though he said that in the
Paumotus there was no reason why it should not be an easterly current. A few
minutes later a squall robbed the Pyrenees temporarily of all her wind, and
she was left rolling heavily in the trough.
“Where’s that deep lead? Over with it, you there!” Captain Davenport held the
lead line and watched it sag off to the northeast. “There, look at that! Take
hold of it for yourself.”
McCoy and the mate tried it, and felt the line thrumming and vibrating
savagely to the grip of the tidal stream.
“A four-knot current,” said Mr. Konig.
“An easterly current instead of a westerly,” said Captain “Davenport, glaring
accusingly at McCoy, as if to cast the blame for it upon him.
“That is one of the reasons, Captain, for insurance being eighteen per cent in
these waters,” McCoy answered cheerfully. “You can never tell. The currents
are always changing. There was a man who wrote books, I forget his name, in
the yacht Casco.
He missed Takaroa by thirty miles and fetched Tikei, all because of the
shifting currents. You are up to windward now, and you’d better keep off a few
points.”
“But how much has this current set me?” the captain demanded irately. “How am
I to know how much to keep off?”
“I don’t know, Captain,” McCoy said with great gentleness.
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The wind returned, and the PYRENEES, her deck smoking and shimmering in the
bright gray light, ran off dead to leeward. Then she worked back, port tack
and starboard tack, crisscrossing her track, combing the sea for the Acteon
Islands, which the masthead lookouts failed to sight.
Captain Davenport was beside himself. His rage took the form of sullen
silence, and he spent the afternoon in pacing the poop or leaning against the
weather shrouds. At nightfall, without even consulting McCoy, he squared away
and headed into the northwest. Mr. Konig, surreptitiously consulting chart
and binnacle, and McCoy, openly and innocently consulting the binnacle, knew
that they were running for Hao Island. By midnight the squalls ceased, and the
stars came out. Captain Davenport was cheered by the promise of a clear day.
“I’ll get an observation in the morning,” he told McCoy, “though what my
latitude is, is a puzzler. But I’ll use the Sumner method, and settle that. Do
you know the Sumner line?”
And thereupon he explained it in detail to McCoy.
The day proved clear, the trade blew steadily out of the east, and the
Pyrenees just as steadily logged her nine knots. Both the captain and mate