worked out the position on a Sumner line, and agreed, and at noon agreed
again, and verified the morning sights by the noon sights.
“Another twenty-four hours and we’ll be there,” Captain Davenport assured
McCoy. :”It’s a miracle the way the old girl’s decks hold out. But they can’t
last. They can’t last. Look at them smoke, more and more every day. Yet it was
a tight deck to begin with, fresh-calked in Frisco. I was surprised when the
fire first broke out and we battened down. Look at that!”
He broke off to gaze with dropped jaw at a spiral of smoke that coiled and
twisted in the lee of the mizzenmast twenty feet above the deck.
“Now, how did that get there?” he demanded indignantly.
Beneath it there was no smoke. Crawling up from the deck, sheltered from the
wind by the mast, by some freak it took form and visibility at that height. It
writhed away from the mast, and for a moment overhung the captain like some
threatening portent. The next moment the wind whisked it away, and the
captain’s jaw returned to place.
“As I was saying, when we first battened down, I was surprised. It was a
tight deck, yet it leaked smoke like a sieve. And we’ve calked and calked ever
since. There must be tremendous pressure underneath to drive so much smoke
through.”
That afternoon the sky became overcast again, and squally, drizzly weather set
in. The wind shifted back and forth between southeast and northeast, and at
midnight the Pyrenees was caught aback by a sharp squall from the southwest,
from which point the wind continued to blow intermittently.
“We won’t make Hao until ten or eleven,” Captain Davenport complained at seven
SOUTH SEA TALES
89
in the morning, when the fleeting promise of the sun had been erased by hazy
cloud masses in the eastern sky. And the next moment he was plaintively
demanding, “And what are the currents doing?”
Lookouts at the mastheads could report no land, and the day passed in
drizzling calms and violent squalls. By nightfall a heavy sea began to make
from the west. The barometer had fallen to 29.50. There was no wind, and still
the ominous sea continued to increase. Soon the Pyrenees was rolling madly in
the huge waves that marched in an unending procession from out of the darkness
of the west. Sail was shortened as fast as both watches could work, and, when
the tired crew had finished, its grumbling and complaining voices, peculiarly
animal-like and menacing, could be heard in the darkness. Once the starboard
watch was called aft to lash down and make secure, and the men openly
advertised their sullenness and unwillingness. Every slow movement was a
protest and a threat. The atmosphere was moist and sticky like mucilage, and
in the absence of wind all hands seemed to pant and gasp for air. The sweat
stood out on faces and bare arms, and Captain Davenport for one, his face more
gaunt and care-worn than ever, and his eyes troubled and staring, was
oppressed by a feeling of impending calamity.
“It’s off to the westward,” McCoy said encouragingly. “At worst, we’ll be only
on the edge of it.”
But Captain Davenport refused to be comforted, and by the light of a lantern
read up the chapter in his Epitome that related to the strategy of shipmasters
in cyclonic storms. From somewhere amidships the silence was broken by a low
whimpering from the cabin boy.
“Oh, shut up!” Captain Davenport yelled suddenly and with such force as to
startle every man on board and to frighten the offender into a wild wail of
terror.
“Mr. Konig,” the captain said in a voice that trembled with rage and nerves,
“will you kindly step for’ard and stop that brat’s mouth with a deck mop?”
But it was McCoy who went forward, and in a few minutes had the boy comforted
and asleep.
Shortly before daybreak the first breath of air began to move from out the
southeast, increasing swiftly to a stiff and stiffer breeze. All hands were on
deck waiting for what might be behind it. “We’re all right now, Captain,” said
McCoy, standing close to his shoulder. “The hurricane is to the west’ard, and
we are south of it. This breeze is the in-suck. It won’t blow any harder. You
can begin to put sail on her.”
“But what’s the good? Where shall I sail? This is the second day without
observations, and we should have sighted Hao Island yesterday morning. Which
way does it bear, north, south, east, or what? Tell me that, and I’ll make
sail in a jiffy.”
“I am no navigator, Captain,” McCoy said in his mild way.
“I used to think I was one,” was the retort, “before I got into these
SOUTH SEA TALES
90
Paumotus.”
At midday the cry of “Breakers ahead!” was heard from the lookout. The
Pyrenees was kept off, and sail after sail was loosed and sheeted home. The
Pyrenees was sliding through the water and fighting a current that threatened
to set her down upon the breakers. Officers and men were working like mad,
cook and cabin boy, Captain Davenport himself, and McCoy all lending a hand.
It was a close shave. It was a low shoal, a bleak and perilous place over
which the seas broke unceasingly, where no man could live, and on which not
even sea birds could rest. The PYRENEES was swept within a hundred yards of it
before the wind carried her clear, and at this moment the panting crew, its
work done, burst out in a torrent of curses upon the head of McCoy –of McCoy
who had come on board, and proposed the run to Mangareva, and lured them all
away from the safety of Pitcairn Island to certain destruction in this
baffling and terrible stretch of sea. But McCoy’s tranquil soul was
undisturbed. He smiled at them with simple and gracious benevolence, and,
somehow, the exalted goodness of him seemed to penetrate to their dark and
somber souls, shaming them, and from very shame stilling the curses vibrating
in their throats.
“Bad waters! Bad waters!” Captain Davenport was murmuring as his ship forged
clear; but he broke off abruptly to gaze at the shoal which should have been
dead astern, but which was already on the PYRENEES’ weather-quarter and
working up rapidly to windward.
He sat down and buried his face in his hands. And the first mate saw, and
McCoy saw, and the crew saw, what he had seen. South of the shoal an easterly
current had set them down upon it; north of the shoal an equally swift
westerly current had clutched the ship and was sweeping her away.
“I’ve heard of these Paumotus before,” the captain groaned, lifting his
blanched face from his hands. “Captain Moyendale told me about them after
losing his ship on them. And I laughed at him behind his back. God forgive me,
I laughed at him. What shoal is that?” he broke off, to ask McCoy.
“I don’t know, Captain.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“Because I never saw it before, and because I have never heard of it. I do
know that it is not charted. These waters have never been thoroughly
surveyed.”
“Then you don’t know where we are?”
“No more than you do,” McCoy said gently.
At four in the afternoon cocoanut trees were sighted, apparently growing out
of the water. A little later the low land of an atoll was raised above the
sea.
“I know where we are now, Captain.” McCoy lowered the glasses from his eyes.
“That’s Resolution Island. We are forty miles beyond Hao Island, and the wind
SOUTH SEA TALES
91
is in our teeth.”
“Get ready to beach her then. Where’s the entrance?”
“There’s only a canoe passage. But now that we know where we are, we can run
for Barclay de Tolley. It is only one hundred and twenty miles from here, due
nor’-nor’west. With this breeze we can be there by nine o’clock tomorrow
morning.”
Captain Davenport consulted the chart and debated with himself.
“If we wreck her here,” McCoy added, “we’d have to make the run to Barclay de
Tolley in the boats just the same.”
The captain gave his orders, and once more the Pyrenees swung off for another
run across the inhospitable sea.
And the middle of the next afternoon saw despair and mutiny on her smoking
deck. The current had accelerated, the wind had slackened, and the Pyrenees
had sagged off to the west. The lookout sighted Barclay de Tolley to the
eastward, barely visible from the masthead, and vainly and for hours the
PYRENEES tried to beat up to it. Ever, like a mirage, the cocoanut trees
hovered on the horizon, visible only from the masthead. From the deck they
were hidden by the bulge of the world.
Again Captain Davenport consulted McCoy and the chart. ‘makemo lay