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