Читать книгу Travel Scholarships - Jules Verne - Страница 15

5 A Daring Move

The plan that Harry Markel and his companions were risking to escape the police was an audacious one, if ever there was! That very night, in the middle of Cork Harbor, some miles from Queens-town, they would attempt to take over a ship, with its captain and crew already aboard. Assuming that two or three of the men had stayed on land, they would soon come back, since night was falling. Perhaps the criminals would have the advantage of numbers?

It is true that certain circumstances would help insure the success of this project. The crew of the Alert comprised twelve men, including the captain, whereas the gang only counted ten including Harry Markel, but the latter would have the advantage of surprise. The ship would not be on its guard, deep in Farmar Cove. The screams would not be heard on shore. The crew’s throats would be cut and their bodies thrown into the sea without their having had time to defend themselves.

Then, Harry Markel would weigh anchor and the Alert, all sails up, would only have to set off from the bay to cross Saint George’s Channel to reach the Atlantic.

In Cork, obviously, no one would be able to explain why Captain Paxton had left under those conditions before the students of the Antillean School, for whom the Alert had been specially chartered, had come aboard. And what would Mr. Horatio Patterson and his young companions say, who had just arrived as Corty¹ had announced, when they no longer found the ship at its anchorage in Farmar Cove? Once the ship was at sea, it would be difficult to find it and to capture these bandits who had just massacred its crew. Moreover, Harry Markel was right in thinking that the passengers would not want to embark before the next day, and the Alert would be far away from Ireland by then.

As soon as they were outside the tavern, having crossed the patio whose door opened onto a narrow street, Harry Markel and Corty went one way, John Carpenter and Ranyah Cogh went the other, guessing that it was better to split up in order to throw off the policemen as they went back down to the port. They were to meet where the rowboat was waiting for them near the landing with their six mates, a place that the boatswain knew since he had put into port several times before in Queenstown.

Harry Markel and Corty went back up the street—luckily, since constables at the lower end blocked the street where it ran by the docks.

Already a number of policemen occupied the street in the midst of an ever-growing crowd. Men and women from this populous neighborhood wanted to witness the arrest of the pirates of the Halifax who had escaped from the seaside prison.

In a few minutes, Harry Markel and Corty had reached the other end of the street, clear on this side and badly lit. Then they started across a parallel street while descending toward the port.

They couldn’t pass by without hearing the remarks exchanged by people in the crowd, and, while this transient population was typical of any seaside city, the comments were nevertheless most unsparing toward these criminals who were worthy of being hanged. But they did not worry at all about public opinion, as one might expect. They were concerned only with avoiding the constables, with having too much the appearance of people who are fleeing, and with reaching their meeting place.

Queenstown (photo by W. Lawrence of Dublin).

Upon leaving the tavern, Harry Markel and Corty had walked separately across the neighborhood, sure to reach the docks by continuing to follow the street. Once at its end, they met up again and moved toward the landing.

This quay was more or less deserted, vaguely lit by a few gas lamps. No fishing boats were coming nor would any arrive before two or three o’clock. The tide was not yet coming in. There was no risk of the rowboat being met as it crossed Cork Harbor.

“Through here,” said Corty, pointing to his left, the side where a port light was shining and, further up on a hill, the lighthouse that marked the entrance to Queenstown.

“Is it far?” asked Harry Markel.

“Five or six hundred feet.”

“But I don’t see John Carpenter or Ranyah Cogh.”

“Perhaps they weren’t able to get out through the lower side of the street to reach the quay?”

“They must have made a detour. They’ll hold us up.”

“Unless,” answered Corty, “they’re already at the landing.”

“Let’s go,” said Harry Markel.

And both began walking again, being careful to avoid the rare passers-by who were going toward the neighborhood that was still full of the crowd’s noise around the Blue Fox. One minute later, Harry Markel and his companion stopped on the quay.

The other six were there, lying down inside the boat, which they had kept in the water, even at the lowest tide, so it was easy to climb aboard.

“Have you seen John Carpenter or Ranyah Cogh?” asked Corty.

“No,” answered one of the sailors, pulling himself to standing by a rope.

“They can’t be far,” said Harry Markel. “Let’s stay here and wait.”

The place was dark, and there was no risk of them being seen.

Six minutes passed. Neither the boatswain nor the cook appeared.

This was becoming very worrisome. Harry Markel did not have enough of his people to carry out their plan and, if need be, fight the crew of the Alert if they could not strike by surprise.

It was nearly nine o’clock. A very dark evening, under a sky more and more covered with low and still clouds. Although it was no longer raining, a sort of mist was falling onto the bay—a favorable circumstance for the fugitives, even though they would have some trouble finding the anchorage of the Alert.

“Where’s the ship?” asked Harry Markel.

“There,” answered Corty, pointing toward the southeast.

It is true that, as the boat approached, they would no doubt discern the lantern suspended on the forestay.

Impatient and worried, Corty went back some fifty feet toward the houses bordering the quay, where a few windows were lit. He stood nearby one of the streets where John Carpenter and the cook were supposed to emerge.

Whenever anyone came out, Corty wondered if it was not one of them, in case they needed to separate. Then the boatswain would have waited for his companion, for he would not know what direction to follow in order to join the boat at the end of the landing.

Corty advanced only with the most extreme caution. He slid alongside the walls, turning his ear to every sound. At any moment there could be a swarm of constables. After having searched the taverns in vain, the police would surely continue their hunt along the waterfront and would inspect the boats moored to the quay.

At that moment, Harry Markel and the others must have thought that luck was going to turn against them.

Indeed, at the edge of the Blue Fox’s street, a loud tumult broke out. A crowd made its way toward a scene of shouting and punches. At that time of the evening, a gas lamp lit the angle of the first houses and the area was less dark.

By staying at the edge of the quay, Harry Markel could see what was happening. In fact, Corty soon came back, not wanting to participate in the brawl where he would have risked being recognized.

In the midst of the fight, the constables had stopped two men whom they held tightly and were conducting toward the other side of the embankment.

The two men were struggling and strongly resisting the agents. To their shouts were added those of about twenty other individuals who were taking sides for or against them. There was reason to believe that these men were indeed the boatswain and the cook.

Corty soon came back.

That is exactly what Harry Markel’s companions were thinking, and one of them repeated:

“They’ve been caught … They’ve been caught …”

“How do we get them out?” responded one of the mates.

“Lie down!” ordered Harry Markel.

A prudent action, since, if John Carpenter and the cook were in the hands of the police, the latter would conclude that the others should not be far off. They would now be certain that the others had not yet left town. The police would look for them throughout the port. They would search all the ships anchored in the harbor, after forbidding them from setting out to sea. Not a single vessel, not a single fishing boat would be exempt, and the fugitives would soon be discovered.

But Harry Markel did not lose his head.

Once his companions were lying down in the rowboat so that, thanks to the darkness, they could not be detected, a few minutes went by, which seemed very long. The commotion on the quay was increasing. The individuals being held were still there. The shouts from the crowd were overwhelming, and it seemed clear that they were being directed at certain criminals such as those from the Markel gang.

At times Harry² imagined hearing and recognizing the voices of John Carpenter and Ranyah Cogh. Had they been brought to the landing? Did the constables know that their accomplices were there, hiding at the bottom of a rowboat? Were they all going to be captured and taken back to prison, from where they would not escape a second time?

Finally, the clamor died down. The police squad was leaving with the individuals caught on the street of the Blue Fox and were going up the opposite side of the quay.

Harry Markel and the seven others were no longer threatened, at least for the moment.

Now, what to do? The boatswain and the cook, caught or not, were not there. With two fewer men, under inferior conditions, could Harry Markel follow up with his plan, get to the Alert, try to take the ship by surprise at its anchorage—and do with eight what was already so audacious with ten?

At any rate, they must still take advantage of the rowboat to get away, if only to reach a point on the other side of the bay and escape into the countryside.

Before deciding, Harry Markel went back up the landing.

Not seeing anyone alongside the quay, he was getting ready to reboard in order to push out to sea when two men appeared from one of the streets, to the right of the one Corty and Harry Markel had taken.

It was John Carpenter and Ranyah Cogh. They were approaching rapidly toward the quay. Moreover, no policemen were on their heels. The men who had been arrested were two sailors who had just punched a third inside the Blue Fox tavern.

With a few words, Harry Markel was informed. A squad of police had been blocking the street when the boatswain and the cook arrived at its entrance, making it impossible to reach the quay that way. They had to retrace their steps to the little street already occupied by other constables and flee towards the far end of the neighborhood. From there, the delay had risked compromising everything.

“Get in!” Harry Markel simply said.

In an instant, he, John Carpenter, and Ranyah³ had taken their seats in the rowboat. Four were seated in the front, their oars ready. The lines were cast off just as quickly. The boatswain held the tiller, with Harry Markel and the others next to him.

The tide continued to drop. With the ebb tide lasting half an hour more, the rowboat would have time to reach Farmar Cove, no more than two miles away. The fugitives would see the Alert at its anchorage, and it would not be impossible to take the ship by surprise before it was able to assume a defensive position.

John Carpenter knew the bay. Even in the middle of this deep darkness, by going south-southeast, he was sure to reach the cove. They would certainly see the mandatory lantern that all ships must hoist at their bows whenever they have dropped anchor.

As the boat advanced, the last city lights disappeared in the mist. There wasn’t the slightest breeze, nor a single wave on the bay’s surface. The most complete stillness reigned everywhere.

Twenty minutes after leaving the landing, the rowboat stopped.

John Carpenter, in a half-crouch, said:

“A ship’s lantern … There …”

A white light was shining at about fifteen feet over the water, at a distance of a hundred toises.⁴

The rowboat, coming closer by half that distance, stopped again.

No doubt that this ship was the Alert, since, according to the maritime newspaper, no other was anchored at Farmar Cove at this time. It was, then, a matter of drawing alongside it without alerting anyone. It was probable that the crew was below deck during this misty weather. But, at the very least, a man would be posted on guard on the bridge. It was necessary to avoid drawing his attention. Therefore, with oars raised, the current should suffice to bring the rowboat to the side of the Alert.

Indeed, in less than a minute, Harry Markel and his companions would be approaching the starboard side of the ship. Neither seen nor heard, for them it would not be difficult to climb up over the rails and get rid of the sailor on watch before he was able to give an alert.

The ship had just swung on its anchor. The first wave was felt without bringing any wind with it. Under these conditions, the Alert presented its bow toward the opening of the bay, its stern turned toward the back of Farmar Cove which closed at a headland on the southeast. It would be necessary to come around this headland in order to gain the open sea and to set into its course through Saint George’s Channel.

So, at this moment, in the middle of a deep darkness, the rowboat was getting ready to draw along the ship’s starboard side. By itself, above the forecastle, shone the lantern suspended on the forestay, whose light was sometimes eclipsed when the mist fell more heavily.

No noise was heard, and the approach of Harry Markel and his companions had not drawn the attention of the sailor on watch.

Nevertheless, they thought their presence was going to be detected. Probably, a slight lapping reached the ears of the sailor whose steps they heard along the railing. The outline of his silhouette emerged for a moment on the poop deck; then, leaning over the guardrail, he turned his head from right to left, like a man trying to see …

Harry Markel and the others lay down on the benches of the rowboat. Surely, even if the sailor could not see them, he might notice the rowboat, and would then call his mates to the bridge to tie up a boat adrift. They would try to grab it as it went by, and it would no longer be possible to take the ship by surprise.

Well, even in that case, Harry Markel would not abandon his plan. To seize the Alert was for him and his companions a question of life or death. Therefore they would not consider turning away.

They would dash onto the bridge, they would fight with their knives, and since it would be they who would strike the first blows, they would probably have all the advantage.

Besides, the circumstances were going to favor them. After having stopped for a few minutes on the poop deck, the sailor went back to his post in the bow.

They did not hear him call out. He had not even seen the rowboat that was gliding in the darkness.

One minute later, the rowboat drew up to the side of the ship and stopped by the beam of the mainmast, where climbing up on deck would be easy by using the chain-wales.

For the rest, the Alert’s deck was only six feet above its waterline, which barely passed the copper sheathing of its hull. With two leaps, climbing with hands and feet, Harry Markel and his men would soon find themselves on the bridge.

As soon as the rowboat was tied, so that the waves could not push it back into the bay, the knives were strapped on their waists—knives that the fugitives had been able to steal after their escape. Corty was the first to clear the handrail. His mates followed him with such skill and caution that the guard neither heard nor saw them.

Creeping along the gangway, they sneaked up to the forecastle. The sailor was sitting there, leaning against the capstan, almost asleep already.

It was John Carpenter, the first to close with him, who plunged his knife into the middle of his chest.

The poor devil did not make a sound. His heart pierced, he fell onto the bridge, where, after a few convulsions, he exhaled his last breath.

As for Harry Markel and the other two, Corty and Ranyah Cogh, they had reached the poop deck, and Corty said in a low voice:

“Let’s find the captain.”

Captain Paxton’s cabin occupied the portside angle on the deck. There was access to it through a door that opened onto the corner of the wardroom.

A window facing the bridge provided light, and, through that window, outfitted with a curtain, light from a lamp suspended by double rings filtered through.

At that hour, Captain Paxton was not yet in bed. He was organizing the navigation charts in preparation for departure as soon as the morning tide came in, after the passengers’ arrival.

Abruptly, the door to his cabin opened, and, before he could react, he was under Harry Markel’s knife, shouting:

“Help! Help!”

As soon as his cries reached the crew’s posts, five or six sailors burst out of the hatch. Corty and the others were waiting for them at the entrance and, as they came out, they were struck down, without being able to defend themselves.

In a few moments, six sailors were lying on the bridge, mortally wounded, some of them screaming with fear and pain. But these cries, who would have heard them, and how would help have arrived inside this cove where the Alert was alone in anchorage, in the midst of this deep darkness of night?

Six men and the captain were not the whole crew. Three or four had to be below decks, not daring to come out.

But the pirates forced them out, despite their resistance, and soon the bridge was red with the blood of eleven corpses.

“Bodies into the sea!” yelled Corty, getting ready to throw the cadavers overboard.

“Hold on!” Harry Markel said to him. “The tide will bring them back toward the port. Let’s wait for the low tide, and it will take them out to sea.”

Harry Markel and his companions were now masters on board the Alert.⁵