in their throats.
“Bad waters! Bad waters!” Captain Davenport was murmuring as his ship forged
clear; but he broke off abruptly to gaze at the shoal which should have been
dead astern, but which was already on the PYRENEES’ weather-quarter and
working up rapidly to windward.
He sat down and buried his face in his hands. And the first mate saw, and
McCoy saw, and the crew saw, what he had seen. South of the shoal an easterly
current had set them down upon it; north of the shoal an equally swift
westerly current had clutched the ship and was sweeping her away.
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“I’ve heard of these Paumotus before,” the captain groaned, lifting his
blanched face from his hands. “Captain Moyendale told me about them after
losing his ship on them. And I laughed at him behind his back. God forgive me,
I laughed at him. What shoal is that?” he broke off, to ask McCoy.
“I don’t know, Captain.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“Because I never saw it before, and because I have never heard of it. I do
know that it is not charted. These waters have never been thoroughly
surveyed.”
“Then you don’t know where we are?”
“No more than you do,” McCoy said gently.
At four in the afternoon cocoanut trees were sighted, apparently growing out
of the water. A little later the low land of an atoll was raised above the
sea.
“I know where we are now, Captain.” McCoy lowered the glasses from his eyes.
“That’s Resolution Island. We are forty miles beyond Hao Island, and the wind
is in our teeth.”
“Get ready to beach her then. Where’s the entrance?”
“There’s only a canoe passage. But now that we know where we are, we can run
for Barclay de Tolley. It is only one hundred and twenty miles from here, due
nor’-nor’west. With this breeze we can be there by nine o’clock tomorrow
morning.”
Captain Davenport consulted the chart and debated with himself.
“If we wreck her here,” McCoy added, “we’d have to make the run to Barclay de
Tolley in the boats just the same.”
The captain gave his orders, and once more the Pyrenees swung off for another
run across the inhospitable sea.
And the middle of the next afternoon saw despair and mutiny on her smoking
deck. The current had accelerated, the wind had slackened, and the Pyrenees
had sagged off to the west. The lookout sighted Barclay de Tolley to the
eastward, barely visible from the masthead, and vainly and for hours the
PYRENEES tried to beat up to it. Ever, like a mirage, the cocoanut trees
hovered on the horizon, visible only from the masthead. From the deck they
were hidden by the bulge of the world.
Again Captain Davenport consulted McCoy and the chart. ‘makemo lay
seventy-five miles to the southwest. Its lagoon was thirty miles long, and its
entrance was excellent. When Captain Davenport gave his orders, the crew
refused duty. They announced that they had had enough of hell fire under their
feet. There was the land. What if the ship could not make it? They could make
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193
it in the boats. Let her burn, then. Their lives amounted to something to
them. They had served faithfully the ship, now they were going to serve
themselves.
They sprang to the boats, brushing the second and third mates out of the way,
and proceeded to swing the boats out and to prepare to lower away. Captain
Davenport and the first mate, revolvers in hand, were advancing to the break
of the poop, when McCoy, who had climbed on top of the cabin, began to speak.
He spoke to the sailors, and at the first sound of his dovelike, cooing voice
they paused to hear. He extended to them his own ineffable serenity and peace.
His soft voice and simple thoughts flowed out to them in a magic stream,
soothing them against their wills. Long forgotten things came back to them,
and some remembered lullaby songs of childhood and the content and rest of the
mother’s arm at the end of the day. There was no more trouble, no more danger,
no more irk, in all the world. Everything was as it should be, and it was
only a matter of course that they should turn their backs upon the land and
put to sea once more with hell fire hot beneath their feet.
McCoy spoke simply; but it was not what he spoke. It was his personality that
spoke more eloquently than any word he could utter. It was an alchemy of soul
occultly subtile and profoundly deep–a mysterious emanation of the spirit,
seductive, sweetly humble, and terribly imperious. It was illumination in the
dark crypts of their souls, a compulsion of purity and gentleness vastly
greater than that which resided in the shining, death-spitting revolvers of
the officers.
The men wavered reluctantly where they stood, and those who had loosed the
turns made them fast again. Then one, and then another, and then all of them,
began to sidle awkwardly away.
McCoy’s face was beaming with childlike pleasure as he descended from the top
of the cabin. Thee was no trouble. For that matter there had been no trouble
averted. There never had been any trouble, for there was no place for such in
the blissful world in which he lived.
“You hypnotized em,” Mr. Konig grinned at him, speaking in a low voice.
“Those boys are good,” was the answer. “Their hearts are good. They have had
a hard time, and they have worked hard, and they will work hard to the end.”
Mr. Konig had not time to reply. His voice was ringing out orders, the sailors
were springing to obey, and the PYRENEES was paying slowly off from the wind
until her bow should point in the direction of Makemo.
The wind was very light, and after sundown almost ceased. It was insufferably
warm, and fore and aft men sought vainly to sleep. The deck was too hot to
lie upon, and poisonous vapors, oozing through the seams, crept like evil
spirits over the ship, stealing into the nostrils and windpipes of the unwary
and causing fits of sneezing and coughing. The stars blinked lazily in the dim
vault overhead; and the full moon, rising in the east, touched with its light
the myriads of wisps and threads and spidery films of smoke that intertwined
and writhed and twisted along the deck, over the rails, and up the masts and
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194
shrouds.
“Tell me,” Captain Davenport said, rubbing his smarting eyes, “what happened
with that BOUNTY crowd after they reached Pitcairn? The account I read said
they burnt the Bounty, and that they were not discovered until many years
later. But what happened in the meantime? I’ve always been curious to know.
They were men with their necks in the rope. There were some native men, too.
And then there were women. That made it look like trouble right from the
jump.”
“There was trouble,” McCoy answered. “They were bad men. They quarreled about
the women right away. One of the mutineers, Williams, lost his wife. All the
women were Tahitian women. His wife fell from the cliffs when hunting sea
birds. Then he took the wife of one of the native men away from him. All the
native men were made very angry by this, and they killed off nearly all the
mutineers. Then the mutineers that escaped killed off all the native men. The
women helped. And the natives killed each other. Everybody killed everybody.
They were terrible men.
“Timiti was killed by two other natives while they were combing his hair in
friendship. The white men had sent them to do it. Then the white men killed
them. The wife of Tullaloo killed him in a cave because she wanted a white man
for husband. They were very wicked. God had hidden His face from them. At the
end of two years all the native men were murdered, and all the white men
except four. They were Young, John Adams, McCoy, who was my great-grandfather,
and Quintal. He was a very bad man, too. Once, just because his wife did not
catch enough fish for him, he bit off her ear.”
“They were a bad lot!” Mr. Konig exclaimed.
“Yes, they were very bad,” McCoy agreed and went on serenely cooing of the
blood and lust of his iniquitous ancestry. “My great-grandfather escaped
murder in order to die by his own hand. He made a still and manufactured
alcohol from the roots of the ti-plant. Quintal was his chum, and they got
drunk together all the time. At last McCoy got delirium tremens, tied a rock
to his neck, and jumped into the sea.
“Quintal’s wife, the one whose ear he bit off, also got killed by falling from
the cliffs. Then Quintal went to Young and demanded his wife, and went to