"Archer hasn't changed his basic character," the Professor said, "so I'm going to give Brent time to get going."
"How much time?" Mitch demanded. "A week? In a week we'll be in the Pacific. Just as good as dead."
"I'll give him until the rest of you are in the raft," the Professor said. "Then … I'll get in too."
"Good," Mitch said. "Now, Goldberg, you and Sko are the only ones who can mess this up by telling either Archer or Brent. So what are you going to do? Squeal on your shipmates?"
Goldberg took a long time to answer, but finally he said, "No."
"I don't think Sko will, either. So we're set," Mitch declared. "Now every time Brent takes a star sight I'm going to be there. I'll watch what he marks on the chart and when it's time to go I'll pass the word. We've got to do it fast and do it right. But until the last minute, we've got to be good little sailors, no matter what Archer or Brent make us do. Right?"
They were about to answer when Brent's voice came flatly out of the intercom. "Bridge?"
Mitch leaned to the intercom. "Bridge, aye aye."
"Mitch? Listen, break out the life raft and check it over real good. Then bind a one-inch line around the gunwales with a good-sized eye in it astern. Okay?"
For a moment Mitch stood staring at the intercom and then he said, "Yes, sir."
In the darkness Goldberg laughed quietly. "Well, Mitch, ol' buddy," he said, "it looks like those stupid officers have beaten you to the punch."
6
Peter Brent sat in the little cabin—hardly more than a closet—with the charts and books spread out on the fold-down desk and the bunk.
"Vailulu Madness," he read, "is a growing cult among the Melanesians of the Bismarck Archipelago. Sometimes known as Cargo Cult from the pidgin English of these people—cargo being in pidgin a man's possessions—it is basically a movement to get rid of all aliens, taking their 'cargo' in the process. Since these tribal natives are only two generations removed from the Stone Age this Vailulu Madness takes forms of extreme violence, including death by torture, murder of women and children and, in some cases, cannibalism. The cult seems to have originated in the Admiralty Islands, spreading from there to the more populated areas of the Archipelago.
"The inhabitants of the Admiralty Islands are a primitive, tribe-oriented group still clinging to many Stone Age practices. All adults and many children chew the narcotic plant, betel, which accounts for the characteristic bright red color of their gums. Adults also file their teeth to points. They are adept at sailing the outrigger canoes, making voyages of many hundreds of miles, but have few modern skills."
And then, underlined in the book, was the last sentence: "Anyone coming in contact with the natives of the Admiraltys should regard them as extremely hostile, dangerous, and treacherous with allegiance to no one."
Peter closed the book slowly and stared at the chart with the penciled line of Slewfoot's course.
The Admiralty Islands lay ahead and to the starboard of the course. Peter had seen natives in New Guinea—almost naked, fuzzy-haired dark people, red-gummed and teeth filed to points—and he had not been attracted to them. There was no friendliness in their eyes, no appreciation for the many things the men had done for them.
Peter remembered particularly their worship of the crocodile. He had seen many carvings by these people of crocodiles, all of them in the process of eating people. The carved people were always half devoured, feet first, the rest of their bodies half out of the critters' mouths. And every one of the people had this silly smile on his face as though it was an honor to be swallowed by a crocodile.
Peter sat with the words of the book still strong in his mind—hostile, dangerous, treacherous … cannibalism, slow torture, murder—and, equally strong, the thought of the terrible wastes of the Pacific Ocean with the great storms roaring across it, or the mind-destroying calms. And he suddenly thought of what a destroyer captain had once told him—of a wave so enormous that it rolled the destroyer more than 90° and towered above the ship like a mountain of water. How could Slewfoot survive a sea like that?
Peter wished that Jonesy were here now to help him, to talk with him and, together, decide what to do for there was little time left; and the decision had to be made. The simple decision: try to get the boat over to the Admiraltys, or let Slewfoot go on out into the Pacific and take her chances across the limitless distances and the great hazards of that ocean.
But he knew that he would have to decide this thing alone—Archer would not help him. And if he decided to try to beach the boat in the Admiraltys, Peter was sure that Archer would be dead set against it.
Added to all the rest of the troubles, Peter thought of the crew. That a mutiny was in the making he was sure, with Mitch as the ringleader. Peter doubted if all of the crew were behind Mitch in the thing—Sko and Goldberg would be the last to join him—but it was only a question of time; and if Mitch were given the time it would take to drift for two thousand miles, mutiny was inevitable. That he, Peter, would go down with Archer was a fact.
It had to be the Admiraltys. Somehow they must reach those islands. His life and the lives of the crew hung on getting to land soon. It would probably mean trouble with the natives, but Slewfoot was still armed and dangerous. Peter was sure she was as dangerous as any Stone Age savages.
He rolled up the chart, got the tide tables and the books, and went across the passageway to Archer's cabin.
Mitch, in the dayroom, saw him cross the passageway and whispered to Joson, "There he goes to eat our chow."
Goldberg, who had been sitting beside Britches, got up in the dark and crossed over to Mitch. "I've been thinking," he said quietly, "and I don't like it, Mitch. I want you to knock off this talk. I don't care what you and the rest of the guys do, just knock off this talk."
"Can you make me, Goldberg?"
"Let me ask you one thing. Has Peter Brent ever put you down for foul-ups you've made on this boat? The answer is No. So you stop putting him down."
"Can you make me, Goldberg?"'
Goldberg stood over him in the dark and said, very quietly, "I can make you, Mitch." Then he turned and went back to Britches.
"Let's get out of here," Mitch said to Jason.
Goldberg watched them go, pausing outside the captain's cabin, trying to hear what Brent and Archer were talking about.
"What's up with Mitch?" Britches asked.
"He's yakking about mutiny."
"Maybe he's right. Archer … "
"You knock it off too," Goldberg said. "Any mutiny on this boat will be against Peter too, because he's an officer and he'll behave like one. And if Mitch tries it, Peter will go against him. He'll go until one or the other gets it."
"For Archer?" Britches asked, surprised.
"Not for Archer. Not for us. For the boat. He's not going to let a mutiny happen on Slewfoot if he can help it."
"No, I guess he wouldn't."
In Archer's cabin Peter spread the chart out on the bunk and got the books and tables ready. Archer sat at the desk reading. He had not spoken to Peter since telling him to come in.
Now Peter was ready, "Adrian," he said.
Archer put his book down slowly and turned. "Yes?"
"You're senior to me, and you're my commanding officer; but I'd appreciate it if you'd forget that for a little while so we can talk. We're in trouble. More trouble than just being adrift, and if we don't do something about it—together—we're going to have a mutiny on our hands."
Archer turned back to the desk. "Mr. Brent, have you ever heard of a man named William Bligh?"
"Is he in the boats?"
"He was in a boat once. It was an open boat, only twenty-three feet long. In it with him were eighteen men and they lived for forty-two days and three thousand six hundred miles across the open sea."
"Oh, you're talking about the Mutiny on the Bounty man, Captain Bligh."
"Captain Bligh. And do you know how he managed to keep those eighteen men and himself alive
across all those miles? Discipline, Mr. Brent." Archer picked up the book he had been reading. "Read the account of that voyage sometime. It will do you a lot of good."
"That happened two hundred years ago. I'm talking about now!"
"Bligh was a master seaman and a great commanding officer who rose to the rank of vice admiral because he would not break his rule of discipline, discipline for himself and for the men serving in his commands."
Peter stared at this man as, slowly, he began to realize at last what made Archer run. Bligh. William Bligh, vice admiral in the British Navy. A man whose name survives in history because men under him mutinied not once, but twice, against his harsh discipline. Archer, Peter thought, must be a man without a character of his own, or at least a man who could not bring his character with him into the Navy.
"Do you think, that you're going to be another Captain Bligh?" Peter asked quietly.
"I'm going to base the command of my ship on the principles of discipline—as Bligh did."
Now Archer was becoming clearer, and as Peter now saw him he realized that Archer was far more dangerous than he had first thought.
"You do it anyway you want," Peter said. "But right now I want to suggest that we try to get over to the Admiraltys. I think we can."
"The Admiraltys are in the hands of the enemy," Archer said.
"What isn't? What land, what island between here and China isn't in the hands of the enemy?"
"In the Philippines there is a strong guerrilla organization. We'll be safe in the Philippines."
"Then why didn't General MacArthur stay there? Look, Adrian, we've got a chance in the Admiraltys and no chance on the open ocean. Willie says that he might be able to fix the transmitter in a day or so. And in shallow water we can get the engines going again. In the Admiraltys we're only three hundred miles from home, man!"
"We are not taking this boat into the Admiralty Islands, Mr. Brent."
Peter sat down on the bunk. He knew now that the time he had been putting off for so long he could not be put off any longer. But what he knew he had to do gave him no pleasure, no sense of accomplishment. It only made him ashamed—and sad.
"Adrian, listen to me. Be Captain Bligh with somebody else. Don't try to take us across the Pacific just to prove a theory. We won't make it, Adrian."
"We will make it, Mr. Brent."
Well, here it is, Peter thought. The end of Ensign Brent, Peter, USNR. He could be shot for this. Court-martialed and shot.
"Have you got the ship's log down here, Adrian."
"Of course."
"Then make this entry in it. As of now I am not taking orders from you, and I am going to do everything I can to get this boat to the Admiralty Islands."
Archer looked up at him with, at last, a real expression on his face—surprise and disbelief.
"So—you are the mutiny."
"Call it that," Peter said.
"Before I make that entry I'm going to read you the Navy regulations regarding mutiny in time of war, Mr. Brent. For your own good."
"You don't have to. Just make the entry."
"Very well. I am also going to enter the fact that I have put you under arrest and have confined you to your quarters under armed guard."
"No," Peter said, "you're not going to do that. Some of the men are on the verge of mutiny now, Adrian. If you try to arrest me they will mutiny."
Archer took down the log, opened it, and wrote for quite a while. When he finished, he looked up at Peter and said with that same cold voice, "From the moment I took command of this ship I have considered you an incompetent officer, interested only in your own welfare. I have given you a great deal of leeway, Mr. Brent, and now you have proven your incompetence not only as an officer but as a seaman. I happen to know that without power it will be impossible to get this boat anywhere near the Admiralty Islands."
Archer pushed himself up out of the chair and faced Peter. "I'm going to give you one more chance, Mr. Brent. I'm willing to forget this entire conversation. At least, I will forget it officially. In return for this I want your cooperation. We have a long and dangerous journey ahead of us."
"Make the entry," Peter said, turning to his chart and books.
Archer laughed, and it was the first time Peter had ever heard him laugh. "There's nothing you can do that will change the course of this boat. You'll never see the Admiralty Islands, Mr. Brent."
Peter ignored him and went out. On the companionway going topside with the books and charts he began to shake, and there didn't seem to be enough air to breathe. He stopped halfway up the stairs and waited a moment for the shakes to settle. Well, he thought, I did it. End of me.
Goldberg was on the bridge leaning against the windshield. He didn't hear Peter come up and go into the chart house; and Peter, suddenly very aware of his new position but not yet sure how to handle it, did not speak as he passed behind Goldberg.
In the chart house he waited a moment before turning on the light. He was very confused now as he was faced with the consequences of what he had done. Only one thing was clear: the crew must not know that he had mutinied against Archer. If they found out, it would make their own plans for mutiny justifiable. He wondered, as he flipped on the light, if Archer could come out of his dream world far enough to realize that also.
Peter pinned the chart back to the table and advanced the star fix up the line the two hours since he had shot it. Then, with the rulers, he laid a course to the Admiraltys, laying it well eastward of the islands to compensate for the westerly force of wind and current.
Going out on the bridge he found Goldberg still leaning on the windshield. "Evening, Gerry," Peter said.
"Evening, Peter."
"Quiet night."
"Yeah. Real quiet."
In his mind, Peter was breaking the crew in half, and as he did it he was weighing the key men, balancing them against each other. Mitch was the heaviest and most dangerous of them all. To counterbalance Mitch was the first problem. The next, he guessed, was probably Sam. The weight of Murph would depend … if Murph was thrown in with Mitch he would weigh a lot. With Sam he would weigh less.
And then there was Sko and Goldberg.
Peter leaned over the rail and called down to Mitch on deck. "Mitch, will you come up he-re a minute, please."
There was animosity even in the way Mitch walked as he strolled aft. Or, Peter wondered, was he just imagining it?
"Yeah?" Mitch said as he came on the bridge.
"How many paddles have we got, Mitch?" Peter asked him.
"Paddles?" Mitch asked, his voice now undoubtedly surly and suspicious. "What do you want with paddles?"
Peter looked at him in the starlight and remembering the old Mitch. Always griping about something, always threatening to put in for a transfer, always saying he'd get out of the boats and never put foot on one again—but always a formidable man in a fight. And a man who had once had two hands for Slewfoot when she needed them. A man you could count on, always.
"To paddle," Peter said quietly.
"Paddle where?"
"How many, Mitch?"
"There're four in the balsa raft and two in the rubber boat."
"Fine. Break 'em out and break out that new line we liberated in Milne."
For a long time Mitch made no move to obey him and didn't answer. Finally he said, "What for?"
Goldberg, who had been listening, now walked across the bridge and stood, looming over Mitch.
Peter knew then that he could wait and Goldberg would handle this situation for him, but he didn't want that. He was saving Goldberg for greater emergencies than this.
Peter said quietly, "Because I say so, Mitch. Okay?"
"You say so," Mitch said and left the bridge.
"Peter … " Goldberg said.
"In a minute," Peter told him, going aft to the open engine room hatch. "Sko," he called down, "can you spare Skeeter for a while?"
Then he went over to the radar shack where Willie was sitting starin
g at a schematic with a baffled expression. "Willie, you need a little fresh air."
Peter turned back to Goldberg. "Go get the Preacher out of the sack and on deck."
"He's on the next section of the watch, Peter. Maybe he ought to sleep."
"The skipper and I've got a deal," Peter said.
He went with Goldberg down to the foredeck where Mitch had the paddles and coil of line. Peter waited in silence, with Mitch silent beside him, as the men came forward, one by one.
This is the way he would divide them, Peter decided. Against the strength of Mitch he would pit the strength of Goldberg, the weakness of Willie and Skeeter, and the goodness of the Preacher. Against the lesser strength of Sam and Jason, and the unknown quantity of Murph, he would throw the quiet power of Sko and the intelligence of the Professor.
And these two halves would not be allowed to get together. There would be no more of Mitch intimidating and persuading the others in the darkness of the dayroom or the remoteness of the depth charge racks. No more of Mitch and Sam and Jason and Murph pooling their strength and gaining more from each other.
"Okay," Peter said to the five men gathered on the foredeck. "Secure that line to the forward bitt and the other end to the sling on the raft. Skeeter, get the boarding ladder."
The raft was a clumsy oval thing of balsa, seven feet long, three wide and meant only for survival, but it was all he had and it would have to do.
When all was ready—the rope secured to the raft and the boat, the ladder dangling over the side—Peter looked at the five men. "Let's go," he said. "Drop the raft and get in."
He could feel them staring at him, feel their animosity. He waited, knowing that it would be Mitch.
"We get in," Mitch said, "and then you cut us adrift. Is that the idea … sir?" "If you want to live, get in that raft," Peter said.
7
It was brutal punishment. For the first hour they paddled without too much trouble, Goldberg, Mitch, and Willie on one side, Peter, the Preacher, and Skeeter on the other. By the second hour their hands were beginning to hurt and their bodies, jammed together in the raft, were one solid ache.