overwhelmed with consciousness of the heroism of himself and his mates, and
with flashing eyes he cried:
“By Gawd! If ‘e will, we will!”
The crew mumbled its assent and started forward.
“One moment, Captain,” McCoy said, as the other was turning to give orders to
the mate. “I must go ashore first.”
Mr. Konig was thunderstruck, staring at McCoy as if he were a madman.
“Go ashore!” the captain cried. “What for? It will take you three hours to get
there in your canoe.”
McCoy measured the distance of the land away, and nodded.
“Yes, it is six now. I won’t get ashore till nine. The people cannot be
assembled earlier than ten. As the breeze freshens up tonight, you can begin
to work up against it, and pick me up at daylight tomorrow morning.”
“In the name of reason and common sense,” the captain burst forth, “what do
you want to assemble the people for? Don’t you realize that my ship is burning
beneath me?”
McCoy was as placid as a summer sea, and the other’s anger produced not the
slightest ripple upon it.
“Yes, Captain,” he cooed in his dove-like voice. “I do realize that your ship
is burning. That is why I am going with you to Mangareva. But I must get
permission to go with you. It is our custom. It is an important matter when
the governor leaves the island. The people’s interests are at stake, and so
they have the right to vote their permission or refusal. But they will give
it, I know that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Then if you know they will give it, why bother with getting it? Think of the
delay–a whole night.”
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183
“It is our custom,” was the imperturbable reply. “Also, I am the governor, and
I must make arrangements for the conduct of the island during my absence.”
“But it is only a twenty-four hour run to Mangareva,” the captain objected.
“Suppose it took you six times that long to return to windward; that would
bring you back by the end of a week.”
McCoy smiled his large, benevolent smile.
“Very few vessels come to Pitcairn, and when they do, they are usually from
San Francisco or from around the Horn. I shall be fortunate if I get back in
six months. I may be away a year, and I may have to go to San Francisco in
order to find a vessel that will bring me back. ‘my father once left Pitcairn
to be gone three months, and two years passed before he could get back. Then,
too, you are short of food. If you have to take to the boats, and the weather
comes up bad, you may be days in reaching land. I can bring off two canoe
loads of food in the morning. Dried bananas will be best. As the breeze
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.
“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
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184
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.
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
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185
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,