First, Sam Hall and Kyle were to go down to the hole of the ship and lead the firemen in their attack upon the oilers and wipers, most of whom had not been approachable with the plan of mutiny because they were newly signed on the ship. In this part of the campaign the most important feature would be the capturing of Campbell, who would be reserved for a finely drawn-out, tortured death. The firemen had insisted upon this.
In the meantime Hovey with Flint and the rest would attack the cabins of Henshaw, McTee, and the mates. Here they depended chiefly upon the effect of the surprise. If it were possible, Henshaw also was to be taken alive and reserved for a long death like Campbell. This done, they would lead the ship to an uninhabited part of the shore, beach her, and scatter over the mainland, each with his share of the booty.
Harrigan forced himself to take an active part in the discussion of the plans. Several features were his own suggestion, among others the idea of presenting a petition for better food to Henshaw, and beating him down while he was reading it; but all the time that the Irishman spoke, he was thinking of Kate.
When the crew turned into their bunks at last, he went over a thousand schemes in his head. In the first place he might go to Henshaw at once and warn him of the coming danger, but he remembered what the bos’n had said—in such a case he would not be believed, and both the crew and the commander would be against him.
Finally it seemed to him that the best thing was to wait until the critical moment had arrived. He could warn the captain just in time—or if absolutely necessary he could warn McTee, who would certainly believe him. In the meantime there were possibilities that the mutiny would come to nothing through internal dissension among the crew. In any case he must play a detestable part, acting as a spy upon the crew and pretending enthusiasm for the mutiny.
With that shame like a taste of soot in his throat, he climbed to the bridge the next morning with his bucket of suds and his brush, and there as usual he found McTee, cool and clean in the white outfit of Henshaw. At sight of the Scotchman he remembered at once that he must pretend the double exhaustion which comes of pain and hard labor. Therefore he thrust out his lower jaw and favored McTee with a glare of hate. He was repaid by the glow of content which showed in the captain’s face.
“And the hole of the Heron,” he said, speaking softly lest his voice should carry to the man in the wheelhouse, “is it cooler than the fireroom of the Mary Rogers?”
Harrigan glanced up, glowering.
“Damn you, McTee!”
“The palms of your hands, lad, are they raw? Is the lye of the suds cool to them?”
Another black glance came in reply and McTee leaned back against the rail, tapping one contented toe against the floor.
“It was a fine tale you told me yesterday, Harrigan,” he said at length, “but afterward I saw Kate, and she was never kinder. I spoke of you, and we laughed together about it. She said you were like a horse that’s too proud—you need the whip!”
Harrigan was in doubt, but he concealed his trouble with a mighty effort and smiled.
“That’s a weak lie, Angus. When I was a boy of ten, I would of hung me head for shame if I could not have made a better lie. Shall I tell you what really happened when you met Kate? You came up smilin’ an’ grinnin’ like a baboon, an’ she passed you by with a look that went through you as if you were just a cloud on the edge of the sky. Am I right, McTee?”
“You’ve seen her, and she’s told you this,” exclaimed the captain.
Harrigan chuckled his triumph and went on with the scrubbing of the bridge.
“No, Angus, me dear, I’ve not seen her, but when two souls are as close as hers and mine—well, cap’n, I leave it to you!”
McTee ground his teeth with rage and turned his back on the worker for a moment until he could master the contorted muscles of his face.
“Tut, McTee,” went on the Irishman, “you’ve but felt the tickle of the spur; when I drive it in, you’ll yell like a whipped kid. Always you play into me hands, McTee. Now when you see Kate, you’ll feel me grin in the background mockin’ ye, eh?”
The banter gave the captain a shrewd inspiration. He leaned, and catching one of Harrigan’s hands with a quick movement, turned it palm up. It was as he suspected; the palm, though red from the effect of the strong suds and still scarcely healed after the torment of the Mary Rogers, was nevertheless manifestly unharmed by the labor which it was supposed Harrigan had performed the day before. The hand was wrenched away and a balled fist held under McTee’s nose.
“If you’re curious, Angus, look at me knuckles, not me palm. It’s the knuckles you’ll feel the most, cap’n.”
CHAPTER 22
But McTee, deep in thought, was walking from the bridge. He went straight to the hole of the ship and questioned some of the firemen, and they told him that Harrigan had done no work passing coal the day before; Campbell, it appeared, had taken him for some special job. With this tidings the Scotchman hastened back to Henshaw.
“The game’s slipping through our hands, captain,” he said.
“Harrigan?” queried Henshaw.
“Aye. He didn’t pass a shovelful of coal in the hole yesterday.”
“Tut, tut,” answered the other with a wave of the hand. “I sent orders to Campbell, and told him what sort of a man he could expect to find in Harrigan.”
“I’ve just talked to the firemen. They say that Harrigan didn’t handle a single pound of coal. That ought to be final.”
Henshaw went black.
“It may be so. I’ve given more rope to old Campbell than to any man that ever sailed the seas with White Henshaw, and it may be he’s using the rope now to hang himself. We’ll find out, McTee; we’ll find out! Where’s Harrigan now?”
“Gone below a while ago after he finished scrubbing down the bridge.”
“We’ll speak with Douglas. Come along, McTee. There’s nothing like discipline on the high seas.”
He went below, murmuring to himself, with McTee close behind him. Strange sounds were coming from the room of the chief engineer, sounds which seemed much like the strumming of a guitar.
“He’s playing his songs,” grinned Henshaw, and he chuckled noiselessly. “Listen! We’ll give him something to sing about—and it’ll be in another key. Ha-ha!”
He tasted the results of his disciplining already, but just as he placed his hand on the knob of the door, another sound checked him and made him turn with a puzzled frown toward McTee. It was a ringing baritone voice which rose in an Irish love song.
“What the devil—” began Henshaw.
“You’re right,” nodded McTee. “It’s the devil—Harrigan. Open the door!”
The captain flung it open, and they discovered the two worthies seated at ease with a black bottle and two glasses at hand. Campbell, in the manner of a musical critic of some skill, leaned back in a chair with his brawny arms folded behind his head and his eyes half closed. Harrigan, tilted back in a chair, rested his feet on the edge of a small table and swept the guitar which lay on his lap. In the midst of a high note he saw the ominous pair standing in the door, and the music died abruptly on his lips.
He rose to his feet and nudged Campbell at the same time. The latter opened his eyes and, glimpsing the unwelcome visitors, sprang up, gasping, stammering.
“What? Come in! Don’t be standing there, Cap’n Henshaw. Come in and sit down!”
In spite of his bluster his red face was growing blotched with patches of gray. Harrigan, less moved than any of the others,