Читать книгу The Kip Brothers - Jules Verne - Страница 9

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Tavern of the Three Magpies

At that time—1885¹—forty-six years after its occupation by Great Britain, which had made it part of New South Wales, and thirty-two years after its independence from the Crown, New Zealand, now self-governing, was still devoured by gold fever. The disorders created by this sickness were not as destructive as they had been in certain states of the Australian continent. It did, however, lead to certain regrettable incidents that affected the population of both islands. The province of Otago,² which constitutes the southern part of Tawaï-Pounamou,³ was invaded by gold seekers looking to establish placer mines, and the Clutha⁴ deposits also attracted a number of adventurers. Evidence of this can be seen in the fact that the output of gold mines in New Zealand from 1864 to 1889 rose to a value of 1.2 francs.

The Australians and Chinese were not the only ones to swoop down like a flock of hungry birds of prey on these rich territories. Americans and Europeans flooded in as well. It will surprise no one that the crews of the various commercial ships bound for Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch, Napier, Invercargill, or Dunedin⁵ were not strong enough to resist this temptation once they reached port. In vain did captains attempt to hold back their sailors; in vain did the maritime authorities offer their assistance! Desertion was rampant and the harbors grew cluttered with ships that, for lack of a crew, were unable to leave.

Among the latter, at Dunedin, could be seen the English brig James Cook. Of the eight sailors making up its crew, only four had remained on board ship. The other four had left with the firm intention of never coming back.⁶

Twelve hours after their disappearance, they were probably already far from Dunedin, heading for the gold fields in the countryside. In port for some two weeks, his cargo already loaded, his ship ready to put out to sea, the captain had been unable to replace the missing crew members. Neither the lure of higher wages nor the perspective of only a few months’ passage had attracted any recruits. In fact, he was unsure whether the men who had remained on board might not be tempted to join their comrades. As the captain continued to seek more sailors, the bosun of the James Cook, Flig Balt, searched the taverns,⁷ the bars, and the inns for men to fill out their crew.

New Zealand⁸ is composed of North Island and South Island—called by natives Tawaï-Pounamou and Ikana-Maoui respectively—which are separated by Cook Strait.⁹ Dunedin is located on the southeast coast of South Island. In 1839, at the place now occupied by the city, Dumont d’Urville¹⁰ had found a few Maori huts where today one can see mansions, hotels, parks in full greenery, streets lined with trams, railways, warehouses, markets, banks, churches, schools, hospitals, bustling neighborhoods, suburbs growing without end. It is an industrial and commercial city, wealthy and luxurious, the center of many railroad lines coming in from all directions. It numbers some fifty thousand inhabitants, a lesser population than that of Auckland, the capital of North Island, but greater than that of Wellington, the seat of the government of the New Zealand colony.

Below the city, arranged like an amphitheater on a hill, the port spreads out like a vast semicircle where ships of every tonnage can enter thanks to a channel that had been dug from Port Chalmers.

Among the numerous taverns in this lower quarter, one of the noisiest and most frequented, belonged to Adam Fry, tavern keeper of the Three Magpies. This corpulent fellow, of flushed complexion, was scarcely of greater worth than the drinks from his counter and no better than his usual customers, all scoundrels and drunkards.

One evening, two customers were seated in a corner, facing their two glasses and a half-empty bottle of gin that they would probably empty to the last drop before leaving the tavern. They were seamen from the James Cook, the bosun, Flig Balt, accompanied by a sailor named Vin Mod.¹¹

“You’re always thirsty, eh Mod?” asked Flig Balt.

“You’re always thirsty, eh Mod?” asked Flig Balt as he filled his guest’s glass.

“Always between meals, Mr. Balt,” replied the sailor. “Gin after whiskey, whiskey after gin! That doesn’t stop you from talking, listening, watching! Your eyes are all the sharper, your ears all the keener, your tongue all the looser!”

One may rest assured that, in Vin Mod’s case, these various organs functioned with a marvelous ease in the midst of the hubbub in the tavern.

A rather short fellow, this sailor, some thirty-five years old, slender, agile, muscular, with eyes like a weasel and where an alcoholic flame seemed to flicker, a cunning face you might say, intelligent yet pointed and with teeth like a rat. Perfectly capable of assisting in evil doings, just like his companion, who was well aware of this fact. They were two of a kind and could count on each other.

“We just have to get it over with,” said Flig Balt in a harsh voice, striking the table with his fist.

“We can just choose at random,” replied Vin Mod.

He pointed at the groups drinking, singing, and cursing through the vapors of alcohol and tobacco that darkened the atmosphere of the room. Just breathing this air would have led to drunkenness.

Flig Balt, some thirty-eight or thirty-nine years old, was of average size, broad shouldered, headstrong, powerfully built. One could never forget his face, even after seeing it but once: a large wart on his left cheek, eyes of a frightening hardness, eyebrows thick and frizzy, a ruddy, American-style goatee with no moustache, in short the physiognomy of a hate-filled man, jealous, vindictive. For his first voyage aboard the James Cook, he had hired on as bosun a few months before. Born in Queenstown,¹² a port of the United Kingdom, his papers declared him to be Irish by birth. But he had been traveling the seas for twenty years, and no one could claim to have ever seen his family. And how many of those sailors have no other family than their shipmates, no other country than the vessel they are sailing! It seems that their nationality changes with the ship. As for his shipboard service, Flig Balt carried it out precisely, punctually; and while being only a bosun, he filled—on board ship—the duties of the second in command. As a consequence Captain Gibson believed he could rely on him as far as details were concerned, reserving for himself the command of the brig.

In truth, Flig Balt was but a wretch waiting to pull off some evil deed, goaded on by Vin Mod’s detestable influence and incontestable superiority. And perhaps he’d get a chance to carry out his criminal projects …

“I’ll tell you once more,” said Vin Mod, “that in the Three Magpies tavern, you can just pick them blindfolded. We’ll find the men that we need here, and of a mind to do business for their own profit …”

“Sure, but still,” observed Flig Balt, “you have to know just where those men come from.”

“Not really, provided they go where we want them to, Master Balt! … Given that we are recruiting them from the clientele of Adam Fry, we can trust them.”

And, indeed, the reputation of this tavern of ill repute was no longer a matter of discussion. The police could cast their nets without any risk of catching an honest person or one with whom they had not already had quarrels. Although Captain Gibson was in dire need of rounding out his crew one way or another, he would not have turned to the patrons of the Three Magpies. So Flig Balt had refrained from telling him that he would hire from that source.

The lone room, furnished with tables, benches, stools, a bar behind which stood the barkeep, shelves cluttered with decanters and bottles, was lit by two windows fitted out with iron bars, on a street leading down to the pier. One entered through a door with a heavy lock and a heavy bolt, above which hung a sign where three magpies, daubed with color, pecked away at each other—a sign worthy of the establishment. In the month of October, night arrives by eight-thirty, even at the start of the good season, at forty-five degrees of south latitude. Some metal lamps, filled with smelly oil, were burning, hanging above the bar and the tables. Those that worked were left working; the ones whose wicks were almost entirely consumed and were sputtering were left to sputter. This dim light seemed sufficient. When you drink neat, you have no need of seeing clearly. Glasses have no trouble finding their way to the mouth.

A score of sailors now occupied the benches and stools—people from every country, Americans, English, Irish, Dutch, deserters for the most part, some ready to leave for the placer mines, others just returning to squander their last nuggets. They were holding forth, singing, shouting so loudly that gunfire would not have been heard in the midst of this tumultuous, deafening din. Half of these people were drunk with that sad drunkenness that comes from the consumption of hard liquor that the gullet thoughtlessly downed and whose bitter burning was no longer felt. A few tottered to their feet, staggered, fell back. Adam Fry, with the help of the waiter, a hearty native, got them back on their feet, pulled them along, tossed them into a corner, all in a jumble. The front door grated on its hinges. A few were leaving, stumbling against the walls, banging into the signposts, floundering into the gutter. Some came in and found a place to sit on empty benches.¹³ They renewed acquaintances, and rough remarks were exchanged with handshakes that could break bones. Comrades met each other again after lengthy shore leaves searching through the Otago fields. There were offensive words as well, and crude stories, insults, provocations that burst out from one table to the next. The evening would probably not end without some personal scuffle, which would degenerate into a general brawl. That wouldn’t be anything very new, of course, for the owner or the customers of the Three Magpies.

Flig Balt and Vin Mod continued to observe everyone with curiosity, before speaking of their need and the circumstances that led them to the tavern.

“After all, what’s the big deal? …” said the sailor, propped up on his elbows in such a way as to lean closer to the bosun. “Just replace the four men who left us with another four … We can’t worry about the others anymore … They wouldn’t have stayed with us … Once more, I tell you, we’ll find what we need right here … May I swing from the yardarm if one of these rascals would turn down the chance of working on a good ship, sailing the Pacific instead of returning to Hobart Town … That’s still in the works, right?”

“In the works it is,” replied Flig Balt.

“Let’s count then,” continued Vin Mod. “Four of these worthy lads, Koa the cook, you and me, against the captain, the other three and the cabin boy. That’s more than we need to take over! One morning … we just walk into Gibson’s cabin … nobody there! … We call the roll … three men are missing! … A sea swell must have carried them off during their night watch … That happens even during a calm … And then the James Cook is never seen again … It vanished with all hands in mid-Pacific … Nothing more is said about it … and under a different name … a clever name … Pretty Girl, for instance … it sails from isle to isle bearing its honest traffic, Captain Flig Balt, Bosun Vin Mod. It fills out its crew with two or three fine scoundrels that we can find easily enough in the eastern or western ports of call … And each will make a small fortune instead of a meager wage, which is generally drunk up before it’s cashed.”

The fact that the din sometimes prevented Vin Mod’s words from reaching Flig Balt’s ears was of little importance. The latter had no need of hearing him. Everything his companion said, he was saying to himself. His mind made up, he no longer sought anything but to ensure its execution. So the only observation that he made was the following:

“The four new members, plus you and me, six against five,¹⁴ including the cabin boy, fine. But are you forgetting that in Wellington we have to take aboard the shipowner, Hawkins, as well as the captain’s son?”

“Right. If we go to Wellington after leaving Dunedin. But suppose we don’t get there?”

“It’s a matter of forty-eight hours with a favorable wind,” continued Bosun Balt, “but it’s not a given that we carry out the plan in the crossing.”

“What’s the difference!” exclaimed Vin Mod. “Don’t worry about it, even if the shipowner Hawkins and Gibson’s son are on board! They will have been thrown over the rail before they can realize what’s happening. The essential thing is to recruit comrades who are no more concerned about a man’s life than an old worn-out pipe, brave men who do not fear the rope. And we must find them here.”

“Let’s find them,” Bosun Balt answered.

Both started to examine more attentively the patrons of Adam Fry, few of whom were looking at them with a certain insistence.

“Take a look,” said Vin Mod. “That fellow there, hale and hearty, like a boxer … with that enormous head … I suppose he has already done ten times what it takes to deserve hanging …”

“Yes,” replied Bosun Balt, “I can see that …”

“And that guy … with one eye … and what an eye! … You can be sure he didn’t lose the other one in a fight where he was on the right side …”

“Well, if he’s willing, Vin …”

“He’ll accept …”

“However,” Flig Balt remarked, “we can’t tell them beforehand …”

“We won’t tell them, and when the moment comes, they won’t sulk about the job. And look at that other guy coming in! Judging from the way he slams the door, you’d think he sensed the police at his heels.”

“Let’s offer him a drink,” Bosun Balt said.

“And I wager my head against a bottle of gin that he won’t refuse! … Then over there … that sort of bear, with his sou’wester askew,¹⁵ he probably spent more time in the bottom of the hold than in the forecastle, and had his legs more often in chains than his hands free! …”

The fact is that the four individuals designated by Vin Mod had the appearance of determined rogues. If Flig Balt recruited them, one might well wonder if Captain Gibson would consent to take on sailors of such caliber! … Besides, it was useless to ask for papers: they would not produce them, and for good reason.

It remained to be seen whether these men were interested in hiring on, whether they had just deserted their ship, or whether they were preparing to trade in their pea jacket for the jacket of a gold digger. After all, they wouldn’t make the offer themselves, and what sort of greeting would they get at the proposal of embarking on the James Cook? You wouldn’t know until you had talked it over with them, and whetted their conversation with gin or whiskey, as they chose.

“Hey there … fellow … have a drink …,” said Vin Mod, who directed the new arrival toward the table.

“Two … if you don’t mind …,” answered the sailor, making a clack with his tongue.

“Three … four … half a dozen … even a dozen, if your throat is dry.”

Len Cannon, that was his name or the one he was using, sat down without further ado, as though to prove he could easily handle a dozen. Then realizing full well that they wouldn’t try to quench his thirst—or even admit such a possibility—just for the sake of his beautiful eyes and handsome ways, he asked:

“What’s up? …” a voice hoarse from the abuse of hard liquor said.

Vin Mod explained the situation: the brig James Cook ready to leave … good wages … sailing for several months … just simple trading from island to island … plenty of drink and good quality … a captain who depended on his bosun, Flig Balt here, for everything concerning the welfare of his crew, home port of Hobart-Town, all in all everything capable of seducing a sailor who likes a good time during his stopovers … and no papers to show the Naval Commissioner … They’d weigh anchor tomorrow at dawn, if the crew was full … and if a man had some friend in bad straits, looking to embark, just point him out if he happened to be here in the tavern of the Three Magpies.

Len Cannon looked at Bosun Flig Balt and his companion, a frown on his face. What could a proposition like that entail? … What did it hide? … Anyway, as advantageous as it sounded, Len Cannon responded with only one word:

“No.”

“You’re making a mistake! …” said Vin Mod.

“Possible … But can’t embark now …”

“Why?”

“Gettin’ married …”

“You don’t say! …”

“To Kate Verdax … a widow …”

“Hey there,” Vin Mod retorted, slapping him on the shoulder, “if you ever marry, it won’t be to Kate Verdax, but to Kate Gibbet¹⁶ … the widow gallows!”

Len Cannon set to laughing and emptied his glass with one gulp. Yet, despite the insistence of Bosun Balt, he stuck to his refusal, stood up and rejoined a noisy group exchanging violent provocations.

“We’ll try somebody else,” said Vin Mod, not discouraged by this first failure.

This time, leaving Bosun Balt, he went to sit at a table near another sailor¹⁷ in a corner of the room. No better a demeanor than Cannon, this fellow, and seemed less communicative, no doubt preferring to talk with the bottle, an interminable conversation which appeared to satisfy him.

Vin Mod went right to the subject:

“Can you tell me your name?”

“My name? …” replied the sailor after a certain hesitation.

“Yes …”

“Well, what’s yours? …”

“Vin Mod.”

“And what’s that?”

“Name of a sailor on the brig James Cook put in at Dunedin …”

“And why does Vin Mod want to know my name? …”

“Just in case I might sign you up on our new crew roster …”

“Kyle … is my name …” answered the sailor, “but I’m holding out for a better job …”

“If one comes up, my friend …”

“Oh, one always comes up.”

And Kyle turned his back on Vin Mod, who was no doubt a bit less confident at this second turndown. It was like a Stock Exchange, this tavern of Adam Fry’s, and demand exceeded supply by far, which left small chance of success.

Indeed, with two customers haggling over the payment for their last pint with their last shilling, the result was just the same. Sexton, an Irishman, and Bryce, an American, would hoof it to America or Ireland rather than board ship, even if it were on the yacht of His Gracious Majesty or the best cruiser of the United States.

A few attempts at hiring, even with the support of Adam Fry, did not succeed, and Vin Mod returned at a loss to the table of Flig Balt.

“No dice? …” the latter asked.

“Nothing doing, Bosun Balt.”

“Aren’t there other taverns besides the Three Magpies around here? …”

“There are some,” answered Vin Mod, “but if we can’t get recruits here, we won’t get them anywhere.”

Flig Balt could not refrain from swearing, followed by a hard blow of his fist that shook both glasses and bottles. Was his plan doomed then? … Couldn’t he introduce four men of choice into the James Cook crew? … Would they be reduced to filling out the crew with worthy sailors who might side with Captain Gibson? … It is true that good ones were scarce, just like bad ones, and weeks would probably go by before the brig, short of men, would be able to put out to sea.

However, there were other places to check. Taverns for sailors are not scarce in the neighborhood, and, as Vin Mod said, they outnumbered churches or banks. Flig Balt set about paying the tab for their drinks when a disturbance broke out at the other end of the room.

The discussion between Sexton¹⁸ and Bryce about paying their tab took a turn for the worse. Both had no doubt drunk more than the state of their finances allowed. Now Adam Fry was not a man to give out credit, even for a matter of a few pence. They were out two shillings, and they would pay the two shillings or the policemen would intervene and take them to where they had been lodged more than once for blows, insults, and misdeeds of various sorts.

The owner of the Three Magpies, forewarned by the waiter, was about to claim his due, which Sexton and Bryce could not have paid even if others had reached into the bottom of their pockets, which were as empty of money as the men were filled with whiskey and gin. Perhaps, on this occasion, the intervention of Vin Mod, money in hand, might be effective and perhaps the two sailors would accept a few dollars as advance payment on future wages? He tried it out and was promptly told to go to the devil. Torn between the desire to be paid and the annoyance of losing two customers if they were to embark the next day on the James Cook, Adam Fry did not even come to his assistance as he had hoped.

When he saw that, Bosun Balt understood that they had to be done with it, and said to Vin Mod:

“Let’s go …”

“All right,” replied the latter. “It’s only nine o’clock. … Let’s go to the Old Brothers or to the Good Seaman … they’re just a few steps away and I’ll be hanged if we go back aboard ship without anything to show for it!”

As can be seen, the word “hang,” as a comparative or metaphoric term, was often used in Vin Mod’s conversation, and perhaps he imagined that it was the natural end of one’s existence in this world!

Meanwhile, from harsh demands, Adam Fry was now turning to threats. Sexton and Bryce would either pay or spend the night at the police station. The waiter even received the order to go fetch the police, who were not rare in that section of the port. Flig Balt and Vin Mod were getting ready to leave when three or four strapping fellows took a stand at the door, not so much to keep people in but to prevent others from entering.

Obviously, these sailors were ready and able to defend their comrades. Things would soon get worse, and the evening could turn nasty as so many others had.

Adam Fry and the waiter did not anticipate such an eventuality, and they were going to rely on the police, as they usually did when faced with these circumstances. So when they saw the doorway blocked, they tried to get out to the alley that ran along the rear of the tavern.

The guards did not give them time. The whole gang turned against them. It was Kyle and Sexton, Len Cannon and Bryce who intervened. There were only a few unable to join the struggle, just a half dozen drunken sots stretched out in the corners, incapable of standing upright.

As a consequence, neither Bosun Balt nor Vin Mod could leave the room.

“We’ve got to take off …,” said the first, “we’ll only get beat up around here …”

“Who knows,” the other answered. “Let’s see how it goes … We may be able to profit from this brawl.”

And since both, while wanting to gain from it, did not want to suffer any losses from it, they remained safely out of harm’s way, behind the counter.

The fight began using non-lethal weapons, if that expression can be used to describe the vicious kicks and blows of the combatants. Soon they would probably resort to knives, and not for the first time—nor the last—blood would begin to flow in the tavern. Adam Fry and the waiter would have been overpowered by the attackers and reduced to helplessness if a few others had not joined up with them. Indeed, five or six Irishmen, with the hope of working out a future credit, came forward to repel the assailants.

It was turning into a full-scale brawl. Bosun Balt and Vin Mod, seeking the best shelter available, went to great lengths to avoid being struck by glasses or bottles flying everywhere. Men struck out wildly, shouted, howled. Overturned lamps flickered out, and the room was no longer lit except from the lanterns outside, recessed in the transom of the entryway.

In short, the four principal brawlers—Len Cannon, Kyle, Sexton, and Bryce—after first being on the attack, now had to defend themselves. In the first place, the tavern keeper and the waiter were not exactly amateurs in their boxing skills. Powerful counterattacks had just knocked down Kyle and Bryce, their jaws half smashed. Yet they got to their feet to help their companions, whom the Irish were backing into a corner.

The advantage favored one and then the other; victory could only be decided by some outside intervention. Cries of “Help! Lend us a hand” rang out in the midst of the fight. However, the neighbors seemed unconcerned about the goings-on at the tavern of the Three Magpies; such riots among sailors had become customary. Pointless, isn’t it so, to risk oneself in such a scuffle? That’s for the police since, as people say, they get paid for it.

The brawl gained momentum as the fighters’ anger rose to fury.

The tables were overturned. They struck each other with the stools. Knives emerged from pockets, revolvers from holsters, and shots were fired in the middle of the dreadful tumult.

As the tavern keeper kept maneuvering to reach the outer door or the entrance to the rear, a dozen policemen stormed in through the back of the building. It had not been necessary for neighbors to run to their headquarters on the dock. As soon as the police were warned by passersby that there was a blowup in Adam Fry’s tavern, they went there in some haste. And, with that official pace that distinguishes the English policeman, they arrived in great enough numbers to assure public order. Moreover, between those attacking and the others resisting, it is probable that the police would not notice any difference. They knew the one group was as worthless as the other. By arresting everyone, they could be sure of doing a thorough job.

And although the room was only dimly lit, the police recognized right off the most violent, Len Cannon, Sexton, Kyle and Bryce, having previously thrown them into prison. Those four rascals, anticipating what was awaiting them, tried to escape by crossing the little courtyard behind the building. But, where would they go, and would they not be picked up the following day?

Vin Mod chose to intervene at just the right moment, as he had said to Bosun Balt he would. And as the others were attacking the police unrelentingly in order to favor the flight of the guiltiest among them, he rejoined Len Cannon and said to him:

“All four to the James Cook! …”

Sexton, Bryce, and Kyle had overheard.

“When does it leave? …” asked Len Cannon.

“Tomorrow, at daybreak.”

And despite the police, against whom, by common consent, the whole group turned, despite Adam Fry who was especially trying to get them arrested, Len Cannon and the three others, followed by Flig Balt and Vin Mod, managed to escape.

Fifteen minutes later, the brig’s tender was transporting them on board, and they were safe in the crew quarters.

The brawl gained momentum.