people are.”
The sun did not appear again, nor, at one o’clock, was any land to be seen.
Captain Davenport looked astern at the Pyrenees’ canting wake.
“Good Lord!” he cried. “An easterly current? Look at that!”
Mr. Konig was incredulous. ‘mcCoy was noncommittal, though he said that in the
Paumotus there was no reason why it should not be an easterly current. A few
minutes later a squall robbed the Pyrenees temporarily of all her wind, and
she was left rolling heavily in the trough.
“Where’s that deep lead? Over with it, you there!” Captain Davenport held the
lead line and watched it sag off to the northeast. “There, look at that! Take
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189
hold of it for yourself.”
McCoy and the mate tried it, and felt the line thrumming and vibrating
savagely to the grip of the tidal stream.
“A four-knot current,” said Mr. Konig.
“An easterly current instead of a westerly,” said Captain “Davenport, glaring
accusingly at McCoy, as if to cast the blame for it upon him.
“That is one of the reasons, Captain, for insurance being eighteen per cent in
these waters,” McCoy answered cheerfully. “You can never tell. The currents
are always changing. There was a man who wrote books, I forget his name, in
the yacht Casco.
He missed Takaroa by thirty miles and fetched Tikei, all because of the
shifting currents. You are up to windward now, and you’d better keep off a few
points.”
“But how much has this current set me?” the captain demanded irately. “How am
I to know how much to keep off?”
“I don’t know, Captain,” McCoy said with great gentleness.
The wind returned, and the PYRENEES, her deck smoking and shimmering in the
bright gray light, ran off dead to leeward. Then she worked back, port tack
and starboard tack, crisscrossing her track, combing the sea for the Acteon
Islands, which the masthead lookouts failed to sight.
Captain Davenport was beside himself. His rage took the form of sullen
silence, and he spent the afternoon in pacing the poop or leaning against the
weather shrouds. At nightfall, without even consulting McCoy, he squared away
and headed into the northwest. Mr. Konig, surreptitiously consulting chart
and binnacle, and McCoy, openly and innocently consulting the binnacle, knew
that they were running for Hao Island. By midnight the squalls ceased, and the
stars came out. Captain Davenport was cheered by the promise of a clear day.
“I’ll get an observation in the morning,” he told McCoy, “though what my
latitude is, is a puzzler. But I’ll use the Sumner method, and settle that. Do
you know the Sumner line?”
And thereupon he explained it in detail to McCoy.
The day proved clear, the trade blew steadily out of the east, and the
Pyrenees just as steadily logged her nine knots. Both the captain and mate
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!”
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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
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
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191
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
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