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
