Harrigan! - Max Brand

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      It was a glorious sight. Something made Harrigan’s heart big; rose and swelled his throat; rose again and came as a wild yell upon his tongue. The unfortunates who have faced Irish legions in battle know that yell. The soldiers did not know it, and they held back for a moment. Something else lowered their spirits still more. It was the clanging of the police patrol as it swung to a halt and a body of reserves poured out.

      “Here comes our finish!” panted Harrigan to his comrade in arms. “But oh, man, I’m thinkin’ it was swate while it lasted!”

      In his great moments the Irish brogue thronged thick upon his tongue.

      “Finish, hell!” grunted the other. “After me, lad!”

      And lowering his head like a bull, he drove forward against the crowd. Harrigan caught the idea in a flash. He put his shoulder to the hip of his friend. They became a flying wedge with the jabbing fists of the black-haired man for a point—and they sank into the mass of soldiers like a hot knife into butter, shearing them apart.

      There were few who wished more action, for the police reserves were capturing man after man. One or two resisted, but a revolver fired straight in the air put a sudden period to such thoughts. The crowd scattered in all directions and Harrigan was taking to his heels among the rest when an iron hand caught his shoulder and jerked him to a halt. It was the black-haired man.

      “Easy,” he cautioned. He pulled a cap out and settled it upon his head. Harrigan followed suit with his soft hat.

      “Are you after givin’ yourself away to the law?” he queried, bewildered.

      “Steady, you fool,” said the other; “they’re only after the ones who run away.”

      An excited Kanaka confronted them with brandished club.

      “What’s the cause of the disturbance, officer?” asked the big man.

      The policeman for answer waved them away and darted after a running soldier.

      “I’ll be damned!” murmured Harrigan, and his eyes dwelt on his companion’s face almost tenderly.

      They were at the edge of the crowd when a shrill voice called: “Those two big men! Halt ‘em! Stand!”

      Officer Akana ran through the crowd with his regulation Colt brandished above his head.

      “The time’s come!” said Harrigan’s new friend, and broke into a run.

      CHAPTER 2

       Table of Contents

      They were past the thick of the mob now and they dodged rapidly among the cottages until the clamor of police fell away to a murmur behind them, and they swung out onto the narrow, dark street which led back toward the heart of Honolulu. For ten minutes they strode along without a word. Under the light of a street lamp they stopped of one accord.

      “I’m McTee.”

      “I’m Harrigan.”

      The gripping of the hands was more than fellowship; it was like a test of strength which left each uncertain of the other’s resources. They were exactly opposite types. McTee was long of face, with an arched, cruel nose, gleaming eyes, heavy, straight brows which pointed up and gave a touch of the Mephistophelian to his expression, a narrow, jutting chin, and lips habitually compressed to a thin line. It was a handsome face, in a way, but it showed such a brutal dominance that it inspired fear first and admiration afterward.

      Such a man must command. He might be only the boss of a gang of laborers, or he might be a financier, but never in any case an underling. Altogether he combined physical and intellectual strength to such a degree that both men and women would have stopped to look at him, and once seen he would be remembered.

      On the other hand, in Harrigan one felt only force, not directed and controlled as in McTee, but impulsive, irregular, irresponsible, uncompassed. He carried a contradiction in his face. The heavy, hard-cut jaw, the massive cheekbones, the stiff, straight upper lip indicated merely brutal endurance and energy, but these qualities were tempered by possibilities of tenderness about the lips and by the singular lights forever changing in the blue eyes. He would be hard for the shrewdest judge to understand, for the simple reason that he did not know himself.

      In looking at McTee, one asked: “What is he?” In looking at Harrigan, the question was: “What will he become?”

      “Stayin’ in town long?” asked Harrigan, and his voice was a little wistful.

      “I’m bound out tonight.”

      “So long, then.”

      “So long.”

      They turned on their heels into opposite streets without further words, with no thanks given for service rendered, with no exchange of congratulations for the danger they had just escaped. That parting proved them hardened knights of the road which leads across the world and never turns back home.

      Harrigan strode on full of thought. His uncertain course brought him at last to the waterfront, and he idled along the black, odorous docks until he came to a pier where a ship was under steam, making ready to put out to sea. The spur touched the heart of Harrigan. The urge never failed to prick him when he heard the scream of a steamer’s horn as it put to sea. It brought the thoughts of far lands and distant cities.

      He strolled out to the pier and watched the last ropes cast loose. The ship was not large, and even in the dark it seemed dingy and dilapidated. He guessed that, big or small, this boat would carry her crew to some distant quarter of the world, and therefore to a place to be desired.

      A strong voice gave an order from the deck—a hard voice with a ring in it like the striking of iron against iron. Harrigan glanced up with a start of recognition, and by the light of a swinging lantern he saw McTee. If he were in command, this ship was certainly going to a far port. Black water showed between the dock and the ship. In a moment more it would be beyond reach, and that thought decided Harrigan. He made a few paces back, noted the aperture in the rail of the ship where the gangplank was being drawn in, then ran at full speed and leaped high in the air.

      The three sailors at the rail shouted their astonishment as Harrigan struck the edge of the gangplank, reeled, and then pitched forward to his knees. He rose and shook himself like a cat that has dropped from a high fence to the ground.

      “What’re you?”

      “I’m the extra hand.”

      And Harrigan ran up the steps to the bridge. There he found McTee with the first and second mates.

      “McTee,” he said, “I came on your ship by chance an’ saw you. If you can use an extra hand, let me stay. I’m footfree an’ I need to be movin’ on.”

      Even through the gloom he caught the glint of the Scotchman’s eye.

      “Get off the bridge!” thundered McTee.

      “But I’m Harrigan, and—”

      McTee turned to his first and second mates.

      “Throw that man off the bridge!” he ordered.

      Harrigan didn’t wait. He retreated down the steps to the deck and went to the rail. A wide gap of swarthy water now extended between the ship and the dock, but he placed his knee on the rail ready to dive. Then he turned and stood with folded arms looking up to the bridge, for his mind was dark with many doubts. He tapped a passing sailor on the shoulder.

      “What sort of an old boy is the captain?”

      He made up his mind that according to the answer he would stay with the ship or swim to the shore, but the sailor merely stared stupidly at him for a moment and then grinned slowly. There might be malice, there might be mere ridicule in that smile. He passed on before another question could be asked.

      “Huh!”

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