Harrigan!. Max Brand
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said McTee, “I’ve been telling Miss Malone that you can be released from your trouble by saying half a dozen words to me. And you know that you can. You will be treated better than anyone in the crew if you will put your hand in mine and say: ‘Captain McTee, I give you my word of honor as a man to do my best to obey orders during the rest of this trip and to hold no malice against you for anything that has happened to me so far.’
“For you see,” he explained to the girl, “he probably thinks himself aggrieved by my discipline. Will you say it, Harrigan?”
Instead of answering, the cold eye of Harrigan turned on Kate.
“I told you not to speak to the captain,” he said.
“Ah,” said McTee, “you were clever enough for that?”
“Do you say nothing, Harrigan?” she said incredulously. “Do you really refuse to speak those words to the captain after he has been generous enough to give you a last chance to make a man of yourself?”
Harrigan turned pale as he glanced at the captain. Her scorn and contempt gave a little metallic ring to her voice.
“You need not be afraid. Captain McTee hasn’t told me anything about your record.”
Harrigan smiled, but in such a manner that she stepped back. “Easy,” said McTee, “you don’t need to fear him in here. He knows that I’m his master.”
“I’m glad you didn’t tell me his record,” she answered.
“I can read it in his eyes.”
“Lady,” said Harrigan, and his head tilted back till the cords stood strongly out at the base of his throat, “I’m afther askin’ your pardon for thinkin’ ye had ever a dr-rop av hot Irish blood in ye.”
“Take him below, bos’n,” broke in McTee, “and put him in on the night shift in the fireroom.”
No hours of Harrigan’s life were bitterer than that night shift. The bandages saved his hands from much of the torture of the shovel handle, but there was deep night in his heart. Early in the morning one of the firemen ran to the chief engineer’s room and forced open the door.
“The red-headed man, sir,” he stammered breathlessly.
The chief engineer awoke with a snarl. He had drunk much good Scotch whisky that evening, and the smoke of it was still dry in his throat and cloudy in his brain.
“And what the hell is wrong with the red-headed man now?” he roared. “Ain’t he doin’ two men’s work still?”
“Two? He’s doin’ ten men’s work with his hands rolled in cloth and the blood soakin’ through, an’ he sings like a devil while he works. He’s gone crazy, sir.”
“Naw, he ain’t,” growled the chief; “that’ll come later. Black McTee is breakin’ him an’ he’ll be broke before he goes off his nut. Now get to hell out of here. I ain’t slept a wink for ten days.”
The fireman went back to his work muttering, and Harrigan sang the rest of the night.
CHAPTER 6
In the morning there was the usual task of scrubbing down the bridge. The suds soaked through the bandages at once and burned his hands like fire. He tore away the cloths and kept at his task, for he knew that if he refused to continue, he became by that act of disobedience a mutineer.
The fourth day was a long nightmare, but at the end of it Harrigan was still at his post. That night the pain kept him awake. For forty-eight hours he had not closed his eyes. The next morning, as he prepared his bucket of suds and looked down at his blood-caked hands, the thought of surrender rose strongly for the first time. Two things fought against it: his fierce pride and a certain awe which he had noted as it grew from day to day in the eyes of the rest of the crew. They were following the silent battle between the great Irishman and the captain with a profound, an almost uncanny interest.
As he scrubbed the bridge that morning, McTee, as always, stood staring out across the bows, impassive, self-contained as a general overlooking a field of battle. And the temptation to surrender swelled up in the throat of Harrigan like the desire for speech in a child. He kept his teeth hard together and prayed for endurance. Only five days, and it might be weeks before they made a port. Even then the captain might put him in irons rather than risk his escape.
“Harrigan,” said McTee suddenly. “Don’t keep it up. You’re bound to break. Speak those words now that I told you to say and you’re a free man.”
Harrigan looked up and the words formed at the base of his tongue. Harrigan looked down and saw his crimson hands. The words fell back like dust on his heart.
“Take you for my master an’ swear to forget what you’ve done?” he said, and his voice was hardly more than a whisper. “McTee, if I promised you that I’d perjure blacker ‘n hell an’ kill you someday when your back was turned. As it is, I’ll kill you while we’re standin’ face to face.”
McTee laughed, low, deep, and his eyes were half closed as if he heard pleasant music. Harrigan grinned up at him.
“I’ll kill you with my bare hands. There’s no gun or knife could do justice to what’s inside of me.”
His head tilted back and his whisper went thick like that of a drunkard: “Ah-h, McTee, look at the hands, look at the hands! They’re red now for a sign av the blood av ye that’ll someday be on ‘em!”
And he picked up his bucket and brush and went down the deck. The laugh of McTee followed him.
Having framed the wish in words, it was never absent from Harrigan’s mind now. It made that day easier for him. He stopped singing. He needed all his brain energy to think of how he should kill McTee.
It was this hungry desire which sustained him during the days which followed. The rest of the crew began to sense the mighty emotion which consumed Harrigan. When they saw both him and McTee on the deck, their eyes traveled from one to the other making comparisons, for they felt that these men would one day meet hand to hand. They could not stay apart any more than the iron can keep from the magnet.
Finally Harrigan knew that they were nearing the end of their long journey. The port was only a few days distant, for they were far in the south seas and they began to pass islands, and sometimes caught sight of green patches of water. Those were the coral reefs, the terror of all navigators, for they grow and change from year to year. To a light-draught ship like the Mary Rogers these seas were comparatively safe, but not altogether. Even small sailing craft had come to grief in those regions.
Yet the islands, the reefs, the keen sun, the soft winds, the singing of the sailors, all these things came dimly to Harrigan, for he knew that his powers of resistance were almost worn away. His face was a mask of tragedy, and his body was as lean as a starved wolf in winter. His will to live, his will to hate, alone remained.
Each morning it was harder for him to leave the bridge without speaking those words to the captain. He rehearsed them every day and vowed they would never pass his lips. And every day he knew that his vow was weaker. When he was about to give in, he chanced to see McTee and Kate Malone laughing together on the promenade.
It was McTee who saw Harrigan first and pointed him out to Kate. She leaned against the rail and peered down at him, shuddering at the sight of his drawn face and shadowed eyes. Then she turned with a little shrug of repulsion.
McTee must have made some humorous comment, for she turned to glance down at Harrigan again and this time she laughed. Blind rage made the blood of the Irishman hot. That gave him his last strength, but even this ran out. Finally he knew that the next day was his last, and when that day came, he counted the hours. They passed heavy-footed, as time goes for one condemned to die. And then he sat cross-legged on his