The Max Brand Megapack. Max Brand
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a cat that has dropped from a high fence to the ground.
“What’re you?”
“I’m the extra hand.”
And Harrigan ran up the steps to the bridge. There he found McTee with the first and second mates.
“McTee,” he said, “I came on your ship by chance an’ saw you. If you can use an extra hand, let me stay. I’m footfree an’ I need to be movin’ on.”
Even through the gloom he caught the glint of the Scotchman’s eye.
“Get off the bridge!” thundered McTee.
“But I’m Harrigan, and—”
McTee turned to his first and second mates.
“Throw that man off the bridge!” he ordered.
Harrigan didn’t wait. He retreated down the steps to the deck and went to the rail. A wide gap of swarthy water now extended between the ship and the dock, but he placed his knee on the rail ready to dive. Then he turned and stood with folded arms looking up to the bridge, for his mind was dark with many doubts. He tapped a passing sailor on the shoulder.
“What sort of an old boy is the captain?”
He made up his mind that according to the answer he would stay with the ship or swim to the shore, but the sailor merely stared stupidly at him for a moment and then grinned slowly. There might be malice, there might be mere ridicule in that smile. He passed on before another question could be asked.
“Huh!” grunted Harrigan. “I stay!”
He kept his eyes fixed on the bridge, remaining motionless at the rail for an hour while the glow of Honolulu grew dimmer and dimmer past the stern. There were lights in the after-cabin and he guessed that the ship, in a small way, carried both freight and passengers. At last McTee came down the steps to the deck and as he passed Harrigan snapped: “Follow me.”
He led the way aft and up another flight of steps to the after-cabin, unlocked a door, and showed Harrigan into the captain’s room. Here he took one chair and Harrigan dropped easily into another.
“Now, what ’n hell was your line of thinkin’, McTee,” he began, “when you told me to—”
“Stand up!” said McTee.
“What?”
“Stand up!”
Harrigan rose very slowly. His jaw was setting harder and harder, and his face became grim.
“Harrigan, you took a chance and came with me.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t ask you to come.”
“Sure you didn’t, but if you think you can treat me like a swine and get away with it—”
It was wonderful to see the eyes of McTee grow small. They seemed to retreat until they became points of light shining from the deep shadow of his brow. They were met by the cold, incurious light of Harrigan’s stare.
“You’re a hard man, Harrigan.”
He made no answer, but listened to the deep thrum of the engines. It seemed to him that the force which drove the ship was like a part of McTee’s will, a thing of steel.
“And I’m a hard man, Harrigan. On this ship I’m king. There’s no will but my will; there’s no right but my right; there’s no law but my law. Remember, on land we stood as equals. On this ship you stand and I sit.”
The thin lips did not curve, and yet they seemed to be smiling cruelly, and the eyes were probing deep, deep, deep into Harrigan’s soul, weighing, measuring, searching.
“When we reach land,” said Harrigan, “I got an idea I’ll have to break you.”
He raised his hands, which trembled with the restrained power of his arms, and moved them as though slowly breaking a stick of wood.
“I’ve broken men—like that,” he finished.
“When I’m through with you, Harrigan, you’ll take water from a Chinaman. You’re the first man I’ve ever seen who could make me stop and look twice. I need a fellow like you, but first I’ve got to make you my man. The best colt in the world is no good until he learns to take the whip without bucking. I’m going to get you used to the whip. This is frank talk, eh? Well, I’m a frank man. You’re in the harness now, Harrigan; make up your mind: Will you pull or will you balk? Answer me!”
“I’ll see you damned!”
“Good. You’ve started to balk, so now you’ll have to feel the whip.”
He pulled a cord, and while they waited, the relentless duel of the eyes continued. A flash of instinct like a woman’s intuition told Harrigan what impulse was moving McTee. He knew it was the same thing which makes the small schoolboy fight with the stranger; the same curiosity as to the unknown power, the same relentless will to be master, but now intensified a thousandfold in McTee, who looked for the first time, perhaps, on a man who might be his master. Harrigan knew, and smiled. He was confident. He half rejoiced in looking forward to the long struggle.
A knock came and the door opened.
“Masters,” said McTee to the boatswain, “we’re three hands short.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here are the three hands. Take them forward.”
CHAPTER 3
Masters looked at Harrigan, started to laugh, looked again, and then silently held the door open. Harrigan stepped through it and followed to the forecastle, a dingy retreat in the high bow of the ship. He had to bend low to pass through the door, and inside he found that he could not stand erect. It was his first experience of working aboard a ship, and he expected to find a scrupulous neatness, and hammocks in place of beds. Instead he looked on a double row of bunks heaped with swarthy quilts, and the boatswain with a silent gesture indicated that one of these belonged to Harrigan. He went to it without a word and sat down cross-legged to survey his new quarters. It was more like the bunkhouse of a western ranch than anything else he had been in, but all reduced to a miniature, cramped and confined.
Now his eyes grew accustomed to the dim, unpleasant light which came from a single lantern hanging on the central post, and he began to make out the faces of the sailors. An oily-skinned Greek squatted on the bunk to his left. To his right was a Chinaman, marvelously emaciated; his lips pulled back in a continual smile, meaningless, like the grin of a corpse.
Opposite was the inevitable Englishman, slender, good-looking, with pale hair and bright, active eyes. Harrigan had traveled over half the world and never failed to find at least one subject of John Bull in any considerable group of men. This young fellow was talking with a giant Negro, his neighbor. The black man chattered with enthusiasm while the Englishman listened, nodding, intent.
One thing at least was certain about this crew: the Negro, the Chinaman, the Greek, even the Englishman, despite his slender build, they were all hard, strong men.
The cook brought out supper in buckets—stews, chunks of stale bread, tea. As they ate, the sailors grew talkative.
“Slide the slum this way,” said the Englishman.
The Negro pushed the bucket across the deck with his foot.
“A hard trip,” went on the first speaker.
“All trips on the Mary Rogers is hard,” rumbled a voice.
“Aye, but Black McTee is blacker’n ever today.”
“He belted the bos’n with a rope end,” commented the Negro.
“He ain’t human. This is my last trip with him. How about you, John? You got a lump on your jaw yet where he cracked you for breakin’ that truck.”
This was to the Chinaman, who answered in a soft