Answer me that.”
SOUTH SEA TALES
179
McCoy smiled as gently as he spoke. His smile was a caress, an embrace that
surrounded the tired mate and sought to draw him into the quietude and rest of
McCoy’s tranquil soul.
“We have no schooner or cutter,” he replied. “And we carry our canoes to the
top of the cliff.”
“You’ve got to show me,” snorted the mate. “How d’ye get around to the other
islands, heh? Tell me that.”
“We don’t get around. As governor of Pitcairn, I sometimes go. When I was
younger, I was away a great deal–sometimes on the trading schooners, but
mostly on the missionary brig. But she’s gone now, and we depend on passing
vessels. Sometimes we have had as high as six calls in one year. At other
times, a year, and even longer, has gone by without one passing ship. Yours is
the first in seven months.”
“And you mean to tell me–” the mate began.
But Captain Davenport interfered.
“Enough of this. We’re losing time. What is to be done, Mr. McCoy?”
The old man turned his brown eyes, sweet as a woman’s, shoreward, and both
captain and mate followed his gaze around from the lonely rock of Pitcairn to
the crew clustering forward and waiting anxiously for the announcement of a
decision. ‘mcCoy did not hurry. He thought smoothly and slowly, step by step,
with the certitude of a mind that was never vexed or outraged by life.
“The wind is light now,” he said finally. “There is a heavy current setting to
the westward.”
“That’s what made us fetch to leeward,” the captain interrupted, desiring to
vindicate his seamanship.
“Yes, that is what fetched you to leeward,” McCoy went on. “Well, you can’t
work up against this current today. And if you did, there is no beach. Your
ship will be a total loss.”
He paused, and captain and mate looked despair at each other.
“But I will tell you what you can do. The breeze will freshen tonight around
midnight–see those tails of clouds and that thickness to windward, beyond the
point there? That’s where she’ll come from, out of the southeast, hard. It is
three hundred miles to Mangareva. Square away for it. There is a beautiful bed
for your ship there.”
The mate shook his head.
“Come in to the cabin, and we’ll look at the chart,” said the captain.
McCoy found a stifling, poisonous atmosphere in the pent cabin. Stray
waftures of invisible gases bit his eyes and made them sting. The deck was
SOUTH SEA TALES
180
hotter, almost unbearably hot to his bare feet. The sweat poured out of his
body. He looked almost with apprehension about him. This malignant, internal
heat was astounding. It was a marvel that the cabin did not burst into flames.
He had a feeling as if of being in a huge bake oven where the heat might at
any moment increase tremendously and shrivel him up like a blade of grass.
As he lifted one foot and rubbed the hot sole against the leg of his trousers,
the mate laughed in a savage, snarling fashion.
“The anteroom of hell,” he said. “Hell herself is right down there under your
feet.”
“It’s hot!” McCoy cried involuntarily, mopping his face with a bandana
handkerchief.
“Here’s Mangareva,” the captain said, bending over the table and pointing to a
black speck in the midst of the white blankness of the chart. “And here, in
between, is another island. Why not run for that?”
McCoy did not look at the chart.
“That’s Crescent Island,” he answered. “It is uninhabited, and it is only two
or three feet above water. Lagoon, but no entrance. No, Mangareva is the
nearest place for your purpose.”
“Mangareva it is, then,” said Captain Davenport, interrupting the mate’s
growling objection. “Call the crew aft, Mr. Konig.”
The sailors obeyed, shuffling wearily along the deck and painfully endeavoring
to make haste. Exhaustion was evident in every movement. The cook came out of
his galley to hear, and the cabin boy hung about near him.
When Captain Davenport had explained the situation and announced his intention
of running for Mangareva, an uproar broke out. Against a background of
throaty rumbling arose inarticulate cries of rage, with here and there a
distinct curse, or word, or phrase. A shrill Cockney voice soared and
dominated for a moment, crying: “Gawd! After bein’ in ell for fifteen
days–an’ now e wants us to sail this floatin’ ell to sea again?”
The captain could not control them, but McCoy’s gentle presence seemed to
rebuke and calm them, and the muttering and cursing died away, until the full
crew, save here and there an anxious face directed at the captain, yearned
dumbly toward the green clad peaks and beetling coast of Pitcairn.
Soft as a spring zephyr was the voice of McCoy:
“Captain, I thought I heard some of them say they were starving.”
“Ay,” was the answer, “and so we are. I’ve had a sea biscuit and a spoonful of
salmon in the last two days. We’re on whack. You see, when we discovered the
fire, we battened down immediately to suffocate the fire. And then we found
how little food there was in the pantry. But it was too late. We didn’t dare
break out the lazarette. Hungry? I’m just as hungry as they are.”
SOUTH SEA TALES
181
He spoke to the men again, and again the throat rumbling and cursing arose,
their faces convulsed and animal-like with rage. The second and third mates
had joined the captain, standing behind him at the break of the poop. Their
faces were set and expressionless; they seemed bored, more than anything else,
by this mutiny of the crew. Captain Davenport glanced questioningly at his
first mate, and that person merely shrugged his shoulders in token of his
helplessness.
“You see,” the captain said to McCoy, “you can’t compel sailors to leave the
safe land and go to sea on a burning vessel. She has been their floating
coffin for over two weeks now. They are worked out, and starved out, and
they’ve got enough of her. We’ll beat up for Pitcairn.”
But the wind was light, the Pyrenees’ bottom was foul, and she could not beat
up against the strong westerly current. At the end of two hours she had lost
three miles. The sailors worked eagerly, as if by main strength they could
compel the PYRENEES against the adverse elements. But steadily, port tack and
starboard tack, she sagged off to the westward. The captain paced restlessly
up and down, pausing occasionally to survey the vagrant smoke wisps and to
trace them back to the portions of the deck from which they sprang. The
carpenter was engaged constantly in attempting to locate such places, and,
when he succeeded, in calking them tighter and tighter.
“Well, what do you think?” the captain finally asked McCoy, who was watching
the carpenter with all a child’s interest and curiosity in his eyes.
McCoy looked shoreward, where the land was disappearing in the thickening
haze.
“I think it would be better to square away for Mangareva. With that breeze
that is coming, you’ll be there tomorrow evening.”
“But what if the fire breaks out? It is liable to do it any moment.”
“Have your boats ready in the falls. The same breeze will carry your boats to
Mangareva if the ship burns out from under.”
Captain Davenport debated for a moment, and then McCoy heard the question he
had not wanted to hear, but which he knew was surely coming.
“I have no chart of Mangareva. On the general chart it is only a fly speck. I
would not know where to look for the entrance into the lagoon. Will you come
along and pilot her in for me?”
McCoy’s serenity was unbroken.
“Yes, Captain,” he said, with the same quiet unconcern with which he would
have accepted an invitation to dinner; “I’ll go with you to Mangareva.”
Again the crew was called aft, and the captain spoke to them from the break of
the poop.
SOUTH SEA TALES
182
“We’ve tried to work her up, but you see how we’ve lost ground. She’s setting
off in a two-knot current. This gentleman is the Honorable McCoy, Chief
Magistrate and Governor of Pitcairn Island. He will come along with us to
Mangareva. So you see the situation is not so dangerous. He would not make
such an offer if he thought he was going to lose his life. Besides, whatever
risk there is, if he of his own free will come on board and take it, we can do
no less. What do you say for Mangareva?”
This time there was no uproar. ‘mcCoy’s presence, the surety and calm that
seemed to radiate from him, had had its effect. They conferred with one
another in low voices. There was little urging. They were virtually unanimous,
and they shoved the Cockney out as their spokesman. That worthy was