"Enough of this.We're losing time.What is to be done, Mr.McCoy?" The old man turned his brown eyes, sweet as a woman's, shoreward,and both captain and mate followed his gaze around from the lonely rock of Pitcairn to the crew clustering forward and waiting anxiously for the announcement of a decision.'mcCoy did not hurry.He thought smoothly and slowly, step by step, with the certitude of a mind that was never vexed or outraged by life.
"The wind is light now," he said finally."There is a heavy current setting to the westward.""That's what made us fetch to leeward," the captain interrupted, desiring to vindicate his seamanship.
"Yes, that is what fetched you to leeward," McCoy went on."Well, you can't work up against this current today.And if you did, there is no beach.Your ship will be a total loss."He paused, and captain and mate looked despair at each other.
"But I will tell you what you can do.The breeze will freshen tonight around midnight--see those tails of clouds and that thickness to windward, beyond the point there? That's where she'll come from, out of the southeast, hard.It is three hundred miles to Mangareva.Square away for it.There is a beautiful bed for your ship there."The mate shook his head.
"Come in to the cabin, and we'll look at the chart," said the captain.McCoy found a stifling, poisonous atmosphere in the pent cabin.
Stray waftures of invisible gases bit his eyes and made them sting.The deck was hotter, almost unbearably hot to his bare feet.The sweat poured out of his body.He looked almost with apprehension about him.This malignant, internal heat was astounding.It was a marvel that the cabin did not burst into flames.He had a feeling as if of being in a huge bake oven where the heat might at any moment increase tremendously and shrivel him up like a blade of grass.
As he lifted one foot and rubbed the hot sole against the leg of his trousers, the mate laughed in a savage, snarling fashion.
"The anteroom of hell," he said."Hell herself is right down there under your feet.""It's hot!" McCoy cried involuntarily, mopping his face with a bandana handkerchief.
"Here's Mangareva," the captain said, bending over the table and pointing to a black speck in the midst of the white blankness of the chart."And here, in between, is another island.Why not run for that?"McCoy did not look at the chart.
"That's Crescent Island," he answered."It is uninhabited, and it is only two or three feet above water.Lagoon, but no entrance.No, Mangareva is the nearest place for your purpose.""Mangareva it is, then," said Captain Davenport, interrupting the mate's growling objection."Call the crew aft, Mr.Konig."The sailors obeyed, shuffling wearily along the deck and painfully endeavoring to make haste.Exhaustion was evident in every movement.The cook came out of his galley to hear, and the cabin boy hung about near him.
When Captain Davenport had explained the situation and announced his intention of running for Mangareva, an uproar broke out.Against a background of throaty rumbling arose inarticulate cries of rage, with here and there a distinct curse, or word, or phrase.A shrill Cockney voice soared and dominated for a moment, crying: "Gawd! After bein' in ell for fifteen days--an' now e wants us to sail this floatin' ell to sea again?"The captain could not control them, but McCoy's gentle presence seemed to rebuke and calm them, and the muttering and cursing died away, until the full crew, save here and there an anxious face directed at the captain, yearned dumbly toward the green clad peaks and beetling coast of Pitcairn.
Soft as a spring zephyr was the voice of McCoy:
"Captain, I thought I heard some of them say they were starving." "Ay," was the answer, "and so we are.I've had a sea biscuit and aspoonful of salmon in the last two days.We're on whack.You see, when we discovered the fire, we battened down immediately to suffocate the fire.And then we found how little food there was in the pantry.But it was too late.We didn't dare break out the lazarette.Hungry? I'm just as hungry as they are."He spoke to the men again, and again the throat rumbling and cursing arose, their faces convulsed and animal-like with rage.The second andthird mates had joined the captain, standing behind him at the break of the poop.Their faces were set and expressionless; they seemed bored, more than anything else, by this mutiny of the crew.Captain Davenport glanced questioningly at his first mate, and that person merely shrugged his shoulders in token of his helplessness.
"You see," the captain said to McCoy, "you can't compel sailors to leave the safe land and go to sea on a burning vessel.She has been their floating coffin for over two weeks now.They are worked out, and starved out, and they've got enough of her.We'll beat up for Pitcairn."But the wind was light, the Pyrenees' bottom was foul, and she could not beat up against the strong westerly current.At the end of two hours she had lost three miles.The sailors worked eagerly, as if by main strength they could compel the PYRENEES against the adverse elements.But steadily, port tack and starboard tack, she sagged off to the westward.The captain paced restlessly up and down, pausing occasionally to survey the vagrant smoke wisps and to trace them back to the portions of the deck from which they sprang.The carpenter was engaged constantly in attempting to locate such places, and, when he succeeded, in calking them tighter and tighter.
"Well, what do you think?" the captain finally asked McCoy, who was watching the carpenter with all a child's interest and curiosity in his eyes.
McCoy looked shoreward, where the land was disappearing in the thickening haze.
