“But we're here, ain't we?” the first mate demanded. “That's the point. We're here, and we've got to do something.”
McCoy shook his head kindly.
“You can do nothing here. There is no beach. There isn't even anchorage.”
“Gammon!” said the mate. “Gammon!” he repeated loudly, as the captain signaled him to be more soft spoken. “You can't tell me that sort of stuff. Where d'ye keep your own boats, hey—your schooner, or cutter, or whatever you have? Hey? Answer me that.”
McCoy smiled as gently as he spoke. His smile was a caress, an embrace that surrounded the tired mate and sought to draw him into the quietude and rest of McCoy's tranquil soul.
“We have no schooner or cutter,” he replied. “And we carry our canoes to the top of the cliff.”
“You've got to show me,” snorted the mate. “How d'ye get around to the other islands, heh? Tell me that.”
“We don't get around. As governor of Pitcairn, I sometimes go. When I was younger, I was away a great deal—sometimes on the trading schooners, but mostly on the missionary brig. But she's gone now, and we depend on passing vessels. Sometimes we have had as high as six calls in one year. At other times, a year, and even longer, has gone by without one passing ship. Yours is the first in seven months.”
“And you mean to tell me—” the mate began.
But Captain Davenport interfered.