nervously chewing his mustache, scowling, unable to make up his mind what to
do.
“What do you think?” he asked, pausing by the side of McCoy, who was making a
breakfast off fried bananas and a mug of water.
McCoy finished the last banana, drained the mug, and looked slowly around. In
his eyes was a smile of tenderness as he said:
“Well, Captain, we might as well drive as burn. Your decks are not going to
hold out forever. They are hotter this morning. You haven’t a pair of shoes I
can wear? It is getting uncomfortable for my bare feet.”
The Pyrenees shipped two heavy seas as she was swung off and put once more
before it, and the first mate expressed a desire to have all that water down
in the hold, if only it could be introduced without taking off the hatches.
‘mcCoy ducked his head into the binnacle and watched the course set.
“I’d hold her up some more, Captain,” he said. “She’s been making drift when
hove to.”
“I’ve set it to a point higher already,” was the answer. “Isn’t that enough?”
“I’d make it two points, Captain. This bit of a blow kicked that westerly
current ahead faster than you imagine.”
Captain Davenport compromised on a point and a half, and then went aloft,
accompanied by McCoy and the first mate, to keep a lookout for land. Sail had
been made, so that the Pyrenees was doing ten knots. The following sea was
dying down rapidly. There was no break in the pearly fog, and by ten o’clock
Captain Davenport was growing nervous. Al l hands were at their stations,
ready, at the first warning of land ahead, to spring like fiends to the task
of bringing the Pyrenees up on the wind. That land ahead, a surf-washed outer
reef, would be perilously close when it revealed itself in such a fog.
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Another hour passed. The three watchers aloft stared intently into the pearly
radiance.”What if we miss Mangareva?” Captain Davenport asked abruptly.
McCoy, without shifting his gaze, answered softly:
“Why, let her drive, captain. That is all we can do. All the Paumotus are
before us. We can drive for a thousand miles through reefs and atolls. We are
bound to fetch up somewhere.”
“Then drive it is.” Captain Davenport evidenced his intention of descending to
the deck. “We’ve missed Mangareva. God knows where the next land is. I wish
I’d held her up that other half-point,” he confessed a moment later. “This
cursed current plays the devil with a navigator.”
“The old navigators called the Paumotus the Dangerous Archipelago,” McCoy
said, when they had regained the poop. “This very current was partly
responsible for that name.”
“I was talking with a sailor chap in Sydney, once,” said Mr. Konig. “He’d been
trading in the Paumotus. He told me insurance was eighteen per cent. Is that
right?”
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
SOUTH SEA TALES
187
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
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
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188
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.
“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