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
