From Unalaska to the position indicated upon the chart as the resting-place of the John Simpson was, in the rough, six hundred knots—nearly seven hundred miles.
When Tom Dennis wakened, the morning after the Pelican1 tacked2 out of the Unalaska channel, he found that she had, with the audacity3 of all whaling ships, run through Unimak Pass in the dark and was now tearing across the North Pacific at an eight-knot clip, with a stiff south-easter rolling her along bravely.
Dennis realized full well that he must avoid all appearance of suspicions having been awakened4 in him. When at breakfast Mrs. Pontifex remarked upon the blessed relief of having the cook aboard, Dennis quite ignored the subject therefore, conscious that Ericksen was watching him with keen and predatory gaze.
"And when shall we make that position, Skipper?" he asked.
Pontifex shrugged6. "If this breeze holds, it's a three-day run for us. Barring a dead calm, we'll be on the spot—let's see, this is Saturday; we'll be on the spot Tuesday morning without fail. Eh, Mr. Leman?"
"Easy, sir. Had we better overhaul7 that diving-tackle, sir?"
"Yes. Break it out to-day. Bo'sun Joe, rig up a derrick for'ard to-day; chances are we'll be able to lay close enough to the wreck8 to swing the stuff directly aboard, and we'll not want to waste time. A south-easter might lay us up on those islands. Ever been diving, Mr. Dennis?"
Dennis nodded. "Twice. Never at sea, but in Lake Michigan."
"Then we'll have a new sensation for you, if you like." Pontifex smiled cruelly.
"Bo'sun Joe and I are the only ones aboard with any experience, and if you care to take a shift with us, we'll be glad."
"I'm in for anything that'll make me useful," said Dennis. "You think the wreck is still on the rocks where we can reach it, then?"
"We're gambling9 on it," returned Pontifex curtly10.
The wind held, and the old whaler blew down the miles of westering with every stitch of canvas taut11 as a drumhead. That afternoon Tom Dennis got a good straight look at the new cook—a most disreputable little man, dirty and slouchy in the extreme. Gone were the trim mustachios, gone was all the natty12 air; but the man was the same who had spilled a vial of chloroform in the Chicago room of Tom Dennis. There was no doubt about it.
Dennis, however, said nothing; later, when Corny introduced the cook as Frenchy, he shook hands and was very pleasant, and if Dumont suspected anything, his suspicions were set at rest by Dennis' air of careless non-interest.
Upon the following day the brigantine was still tearing along with a swirl13 of water hissing14 under her counter. Off to the north the islands showed their mountain-tips against the sky, blue and continuous as some distant mainland. Talking with the mates and boat-steerers and Kanakas, Tom Dennis was entertained with many stories of those islands: how fox- and seal-farmers were scattered15 through the group; how small launches cruised the entire length of the island chain with impunity16; how in time to come there would be a thriving island population where now were empty stretches of land or scattered communities of miserable17 natives.
And there were other and more ominous18 tales: tales of Boguslav and Katmai, of islands that came and went overnight, of oil-soaked whalers caught under descending19 showers of hot ash and burned to the water's edge. There were tales of seal-poaching, of poachers who fought each other, of Yankees who fought Japs; and these tales verged20 upon the personal. Nods and winks21 were interchanged when Bo'sun Joe told about "men he had known", or when black Manuel Mendez related exploits of which "he had heard". Tom Dennis gained some fine material for feature-stories—but it worried him. He began to realize that these men among whom he had fallen were, so far as their natures were concerned, no better than pirates.
Then, upon the evening of the second day, came the affair which proved that all restraint was now loosed.
Darkness was falling, and having no particular longing22 for the society of the Missus and Pontifex, in the stern cabin, Dennis was in the waist near the try-works, listening while Corny spun23 a whaling yarn24 to the watch. The yarn was broken into by a sudden choking cry, followed by an excited call in Portuguese25. The voice was that of Manuel Mendez who would take the deck from Mr. Leman in a few moments.
At sound of the cry, Corny whipped out his knife and was gone like a shadow. Dennis was the first to follow, darting26 after the black boat-steerer toward the windward side of the deck, whence the voice had come.
An instant later, Dennis had turned the corner of the try-works. What had happened he could not tell; but he saw the huge figure of Manuel Mendez hanging to the mizzen-shrouds, groaning27 faintly. Close by, the insignificant28 little cook was facing the glittering knife of Corny—facing it with bare hands.
Corny, growling29 savage31 Cape32 Verde oaths, leaped. Swift as light was Frenchy, darting in and out again, sweeping33 the knife aside, striking catlike. Corny staggered back.
At that instant Mr. Leman swept upon the scene, his grey wisps of hair flying, his long arms flailing34. Frenchy, not hearing him, was knocked headlong into the galley35 and fell with a tremendous crashing of pots and pans.
"He keel Manuel!" cried out Corny, retreating from the second mate and putting up his knife. "He mos' get my eyes—ah, de poor Manuel!"
The giant figure of the bearded black fell limply. Dennis retreated, feeling sick; for Manuel Mendez had been stabbed with his own knife—after his eyes had been gouged36 away. Even for sea-fighting, there was something horrible about it.
Later, Dennis came upon the steward37 and two of the miserable white sailors talking near the forecastle scuttle38. The steward was describing what had happened.
"Joked 'im, the mate did; chaffed 'im abaht some woman. Bli' me! Frenchy was hup and at 'im like this." And the Cockney held the two first fingers of his right hand forked and aloft. "Tried to jerk at 'is knife, 'e did, but Frenchy hup an' took if first—ugh! 'Orrible it was. And now the Capting, 'e'll 'ang Frenchy."
Somebody guffawed39 in the darkness.
"Hang Frenchy? Not him! Frenchy an' the Skipper have sailed together for years, they tell me. Hey, mates?"
"You bet," came a response. "Skipper don' dast hang him, I guess."
To Dennis it was rankly incredible; but it was true. In the morning Manuel Mendez, who would smile no more his white-toothed hungry smile, was sent overside with a chunk40 of coal sewed at his feet; and as the body was committed to the deep, Frenchy leaped to the rail and sent a bucket of slush over the canvas. An old whaling custom, this, to keep the dead man's ghost from following the ship. But Frenchy remained untouched for his crime. If there were any inquiry41 or punishment, Dennis never heard of it. The ship's routine pursued its usual course, Ericksen being advanced to the position of second mate, Leman to that of first mate.
One man aboard, however, did not forget the happening; and this was Corny, the compatriot of the murdered mate. More than once, Dennis saw Corny's eyes follow Frenchy about the deck with a black, murderous look.
These things, however, swiftly were forgotten in the rumoured42 vicinity of the wreck; and since everyone aboard either knew, or had guessed, the import of this strange cruise, the ship hummed like a beehive with speculation43 and gossip. At noon, with the remarkable44 keenness which distinguishes whaling skippers, Captain Pontifex completed his observations and then laid out a new course, stating that it would bring them under the lee of the island at four bells in the morning wat............