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