Adams and demanded his wife. Adams and Young were afraid of Quintal. They knew
he would kill them. So they killed him, the two of them together, with a
hatchet. Then Young died. And that was about all the trouble they had.”
“I should say so,” Captain Davenport snorted. “There was nobody left to kill.”
“You see, God had hidden His face,” McCoy said.
By morning no more than a faint air was blowing from the eastward, and, unable
to make appreciable southing by it, Captain Davenport hauled up full-and-by on
the port track. He was afraid of that terrible westerly current which had
cheated him out of so many ports of refuge. All day the calm continued, and
all night, while the sailors, on a short ration of dried banana, were
grumbling. Also, they were growing weak and complaining of stomach pains
SOUTH SEA TALES
195
caused by the straight banana diet. All day the current swept the PYRENEES to
the westward, while there was no wind to bear her south. In the middle of the
first dogwatch, cocoanut trees were sighted due south, their tufted heads
rising above the water and marking the low-lying atoll beneath.
“That is Taenga Island,” McCoy said. “We need a breeze tonight, or else we’ll
miss Makemo.”
“What’s become of the southeast trade?” the captain demanded. “Why don’t it
blow? What’s the matter?”
“It is the evaporation from the big lagoons–there are so many of them,” McCoy
explained. The evaporation upsets the whole system of trades. It even causes
the wind to back up and blow gales from the southwest. This is the Dangerous
Archipelago, Captain.”
Captain Davenport faced the old man, opened his mouth, and was about to curse,
but paused and refrained. ‘mcCoy’s presence was a rebuke to the blasphemies
that stirred in his brain and trembled in his larynx. ‘mcCoy’s influence had
been growing during the many days they had been together. Captain Davenport
was an autocrat of the sea, fearing no man, never bridling his tongue, and now
he found himself unable to curse in the presence of this old man with the
feminine brown eyes and the voice of a dove. When he realized this, Captain
Davenport experienced a distinct shock. This old man was merely the seed of
McCoy, of McCoy of the BOUNTY, the mutineer fleeing from the hemp that waited
him in England, the McCoy who was a power for evil in the early days of blood
and lust and violent death on Pitcairn Island.
Captain Davenport was not religious, yet in that moment he felt a mad impulse
to cast himself at the other’s feet–and to say he knew not what. It was an
emotion that so deeply stirred him, rather than a coherent thought, and he was
aware in some vague way of his own unworthiness and smallness in the presence
of this other man who possessed the simplicity of a child and the gentleness
of a woman.
Of course he could not so humble himself before the eyes of his officers and
men. And yet the anger that had prompted the blasphemy still raged in him. He
suddenly smote the cabin with his clenched hand and cried:
“Look here, old man, I won’t be beaten. These Paumotus have cheated and
tricked me and made a fool of me. I refuse to be beaten. I am going to drive
this ship, and drive and drive and drive clear through the Paumotus to China
but what I find a bed for her. If every man deserts, I’ll stay by her. I’ll
show the Paumotus. They can’t fool me. She’s a good girl, and I’ll stick by
her as long as there’s a plank to stand on. You hear me?”
“And I’ll stay with you, Captain,” McCoy said.
During the night, light, baffling airs blew out of the south, and the frantic
captain, with his cargo of fire, watched and measured his westward drift and
went off by himself at times to curse softly so that McCoy should not hear.
Daylight showed more palms growing out of the water to the south.
SOUTH SEA TALES
196
“That’s the leeward point of Makemo,” McCoy said. “Katiu is only a few miles
to the west. We may make that.”
But the current, sucking between the two islands, swept them to the northwest,
and at one in the afternoon they saw the palms of Katiu rise above the sea and
sink back into the sea again.
A few minutes later, just as the captain had discovered that a new current
from the northeast had gripped the Pyrenees, the masthead lookouts raised
cocoanut palms in the northwest.
“It is Raraka,” said McCoy. “We won’t make it without wind. The current is
drawing us down to the southwest. But we must watch out. A few miles farther
on a current flows north and turns in a circle to the northwest. This will
sweep us away from Fakarava, and Fakarava is the place for the Pyrenees to
find her bed.”
“They can sweep all they da–all they well please,” Captain Davenport remarked
with heat. “We’ll find a bed for her somewhere just the same.”
But the situation on the Pyrenees was reaching a culmination. The deck was so
hot that it seemed an increase of a few degrees would cause it to burst into
flames. In many places even the heavy-soled shoes of the men were no
protection, and they were compelled to step lively to avoid scorching their
feet. The smoke had increased and grown more acrid. Every man on board was
suffering from inflamed eyes, and they coughed and strangled like a crew of
tuberculosis patients. In the afternoon the boats were swung out and equipped.
The last several packages of dried bananas were stored in them, as well as the
instruments of the officers. Captain Davenport even put the chronometer into
the longboat, fearing the blowing up of the deck at any moment.
All night this apprehension weighed heavily on all, and in the first morning
light, with hollow eyes and ghastly faces, they stared at one another as if in
surprise that the Pyrenees still held together and that they still were alive.
Walking rapidly at times, and even occasionally breaking into an undignified
hop-skip-and-run, Captain Davenport inspected his ship’s deck.
“It is a matter of hours now, if not of minutes,” he announced on his return
to the poop.
The cry of land came down from the masthead. From the deck the land was
invisible, and McCoy went aloft, while the captain took advantage of the
opportunity to curse some of the bitterness out of his heart. But the cursing
was suddenly stopped by a dark line on the water which he sighted to the
northeast. It was not a squall, but a regular breeze–the disrupted trade
wind, eight points out of its direction but resuming business once more.
“Hold her up, Captain,” McCoy said as soon as he reached the poop. “That’s the
easterly point of Fakarava, and we’ll go in through the passage full-tilt, the
wind abeam, and every sail drawing.”
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197
At the end of an hour, the cocoanut trees and the low-lying land were visible
from the deck. The feeling that the end of the PYRENEES’ resistance was
imminent weighed heavily on everybody. Captain Davenport had the three boats
lowered and dropped short astern, a man in each to keep them apart. The
Pyrenees closely skirted the shore, the surf-whitened atoll a bare two cable
lengths away.
And a minute later the land parted, exposing a narrow passage and the lagoon
beyond, a great mirror, thirty miles in length and a third as broad.
“Now, Captain.”
For the last time the yards of the Pyrenees swung around as she obeyed the
wheel and headed into the passage. The turns had scarcely been made, and
nothing had been coiled down, when the men and mates swept back to the poop in
panic terror. Nothing had happened, yet they averred that something was going
to happen. They could not tell why. They merely knew that it was about to
happen. ‘mcCoy started forward to take up his position on the bow in order to
con the vessel in; but the captain gripped his arm and whirled him around.
“Do it from here,” he said. “That deck’s not safe. What’s the matter?” he
demanded the next instant. “We’re standing still.”
McCoy smiled.
“You are bucking a seven-knot current, Captain,” he said. “That is the way the
full ebb runs out of this passage.”
At the end of another hour the Pyrenees had scarcely gained her length, but
the wind freshened and she began to forge ahead.
“Better get into the boats, some of you,” Captain Davenport commanded.
His voice was still ringing, and the men were just beginning to move in
obedience, when the amidship deck of the Pyrenees, in a mass of flame and
smoke, was flung upward into the sails and rigging, part of it remaining there