A thousand deaths by Jack London

back one to check her.

“Steady.”

“Steady she is–right on it.”

Despite the fact that the wind was now astern, the heat was so intense that

Captain Davenport was compelled to steal sidelong glances into the binnacle,

letting go the wheel now with one hand, now with the other, to rub or shield

his blistering cheeks.

McCoy’s beard was crinkling and shriveling and the smell of it, strong in the

other’s nostrils, compelled him to look toward McCoy with sudden solicitude.

Captain Davenport was letting go the spokes alternately with his hands in

order to rub their blistering backs against his trousers. Every sail on the

mizzenmast vanished in a rush of flame, compelling the two men to crouch and

shield their faces.

“Now,” said McCoy, stealing a glance ahead at the low shore, “four points up,

Captain, and let her drive.”

Shreds and patches of burning rope and canvas were falling about them and upon

SOUTH SEA TALES

98

them. The tarry smoke from a smouldering piece of rope at the captain’s feet

set him off into a violent coughing fit, during which he still clung to the

spokes.

The Pyrenees struck, her bow lifted and she ground ahead gently to a stop. A

shower of burning fragments, dislodged by the shock, fell about them. The ship

moved ahead again and struck a second time. She crushed the fragile coral

under her keel, drove on, and struck a third time.

“Hard over,” said McCoy. “Hard over?” he questioned gently, a minute later.

“She won’t answer,” was the reply.

“All right. She is swinging around.” ‘mcCoy peered over the side. “Soft, white

sand. Couldn’t ask better. A beautiful bed.”

As the Pyrenees swung around her stern away from the wind, a fearful blast of

smoke and flame poured aft. Captain Davenport deserted the wheel in blistering

agony. He reached the painter of the boat that lay under the quarter, then

looked for McCoy, who was standing aside to let him go down.

“You first,” the captain cried, gripping him by the shoulder and almost

throwing him over the rail. But the flame and smoke were too terrible, and he

followed hard after McCoy, both men wriggling on the rope and sliding down

into the boat together. A sailor in the bow, without waiting for orders,

slashed the painter through with his sheath knife. The oars, poised in

readiness, bit into the water, and the boat shot away.

“a beautiful bed, Captain,” McCoy murmured, looking back.

“Ay, a beautiful bed, and all thanks to you,” was the answer.

The three boats pulled away for the white beach of pounded coral, beyond

which, on the edge of a cocoanut grove, could be seen a half dozen grass

houses and a score or more of excited natives, gazing wide-eyed at the

conflagration that had come to land.

The boats grounded and they stepped out on the white beach.

“And now,” said McCoy, “I must see about getting back to Pitcairn.”

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of South Sea Tales, by Jack London

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