The Kip Brothers. Jules Verne

leaving their ship for the deposits in Clutha …”

      “Me … I know four who won’t regret having embarked on the James Cook instead of taking off for the interior!”

      “You saying that for us?”

      “For you and two or three other gaffers like you!”

      “And you’re trying to make me believe a sailor earns enough for a good life, eating and drinking the rest of his days for taking care of a captain and an owner?”

      “Of course not,” replied Vin Mod, “unless he does it for his own account!”

      “And how does that work? When we don’t own the ship?”

      “Someday you’ll get to be an owner …”

      “And you think that me and my friends have enough money in a Dunedin bank to buy a ship?”

      “No, my friend. If you ever had savings, they passed right through the hands of Adam Frye and other bankers of that sort!”

      “Well, Mod, no money, no ship. And I don’t think that Mr. Gibson is of a mood to make us a gift of his own.”

      “No … but you know, misfortunes do happen! If Mister Gibson were to disappear … An accident, falling into the sea … that happens to the best of captains. One good wave, doesn’t take more to do you in, and at night … without anyone noticing … and in the morning nobody’s there …”

      Len Cannon looked at Vin Mod, eye to eye, wondering if he understood.

      The other continued:

      “And then what happens? The captain’s replaced, and in this case it’s the second in command who takes over the ship, or if there’s no second in command, it’s the lieutenant.”

      “And if there isn’t any lieutenant …,” added Len Cannon, lowering his voice and giving his interlocutor a nudge with his elbow, “if there’s no lieutenant, it’s the bosun …”

      “As you say, my friend, and with a bosun like Flig Balt you could go a long way …”

      “Not where you should go?” insinuated Len Cannon, tossing him a sideways glance.

      “No … But it’s where you want to go …” said Vin Mod. “Where real money can be made. Good cargoes … Mother of pearl, copra, spices … all of it in the hold of the Little Girl.”⁹

      “What do you mean … Little Girl?”

      “That would be the new name of the James Cook … A pretty name, isn’t it? It should bring us luck!”

      In any event, whether it carried this name or some other—although Vin Mod seemed especially fond of the new one—there were definite possibilities here. Len Cannon was intelligent enough to pick up on the fact that this proposal was being addressed to his comrades of the Three Magpies and to himself. Scruples would certainly not hold them back. But, before getting involved, he needed to understand things thoroughly, and on what side his best interests would lie. So after several moments of reflection, Len Cannon, who cast his eyes about to be sure no one could hear him, said to Vin Mod:

      “Let’s hear it.”

      Vin Mod then informed Len Cannon of the entire scheme as Flig Balt had planned it. Len Cannon, quite ready to take on such a proposition, showed neither surprise on hearing the details, nor repugnance in discussing them, nor hesitation in accepting them. Getting rid of Captain Gibson and some sailors who would have refused to enter into rebellion against him, take over the brig, change its name and, if necessary, its nationality, traffic across the Pacific, equal shares with the profits, all that was sufficiently appealing to the rogue. Nevertheless, he wanted some guarantees, and he wanted to be assured that the bosun was in on this with Vin Mod.

      “This evening at a quarter to eight, while you’re at the helm, Flig Balt will talk to you, Len. Keep your ears open.”

      “And he’s the one who’ll take command of the James Cook?” asked Len Cannon, who would have preferred not being under anyone’s orders.

      “Ah, of course … devil take us! …,” replied Vin Mod. “You’ve got to have a captain, for sure. Only, it’s you, Len, your friends and us who will be the owners!”

      “It’s a deal, Mod. Soon as I get a chance to talk to Sexton, Bryce, and Kyle, I’ll tip them off to this affair.”

      “It’s just that it’s real urgent.”

      “As much as that?”

      “Yes … tonight, and, once the new masters are in charge, we’ll head out!”

      So Vin Mod explained why the job had to be done before their arrival in Wellington, where Mr. Hawkins and the Gibson son would come aboard.

      With two more men, the outcome would be less sure. In any case, if it weren’t for the coming night, it would have to be for the next, no later … or there would be less chance of success.

      Len Cannon understood those reasons. When evening came, he would tell his friends, in whom he had as much confidence as in himself. From the moment the bosun put out the command, they would obey him. But first, Flig Balt had to confirm everything that Vin Mod had said. Two words would be enough, and a handshake to seal the pact. And by St. Patrick! Len Cannon would not demand a signature. What was promised would be kept.

      In short, just as Vin Mod had indicated, toward eight o’clock, when Len Cannon was at the helm, Flig Balt left the crew’s quarters and headed aft. The captain was there at that time, and he had to wait for him to return to his cabin after having given out the orders for the night.

      The northwest breeze held steady, although it had dropped a bit at sunset and it would not be necessary to change sails; perhaps they should only bring along the big topgallant and the little one. The brig would stay under its topsails, its low sails, and its jibs. Besides, it was less close to the wind, waiting to head toward the northeast. The sea promised to be calm until morning.

      The James Cook, outside the port of Timaru,¹⁰ was about to cross the vast bay that indents the coastline, known by the name of Canterbury Bight. In order to cut around the Banks peninsula that encloses it, the ship would have to alter the course by two points to the east and navigate close-hauled to the wind.

      Mr. Gibson braced the yards and hauled in the sheets in order to follow that direction. When day came, provided that the breeze did not utterly fall, he counted on having left behind Pompey’s Pillars to find himself abeam of Christchurch.¹¹

      After his orders were carried out, Harry Gibson, to the great frustration of Flig Balt, remained on the bridge until ten o’clock, sometimes exchanging some words with him, sometimes seated on the coping. The bosun, forewarned by Vin Mod, found himself unable to talk with Len Cannon.

      Finally, everything settled down on board. The brig would not have to alter its route until three or four o’clock in the morning, when they would be in view of the port of Akaroa.¹² So Mr. Gibson, after one last look at the horizon and the sail spread, returned to his cabin, which let in daylight on the forward side.

      The discussion between Flig Balt and Len Cannon did not take long. The bosun confirmed the proposals of Vin Mod. No halfway measures: they’d throw the captain overboard after surprising him in his room, and since they could not count on Hobbes, Wickley, and Burnes, they’d throw them overboard as well. Len Cannon had only to reassure himself on the cooperation of his three comrades.

      “But when?” asked Len Cannon.

      “Tonight,” replied Vin Mod.

      “What time?”

      “Between eleven and midnight,” replied Flig Balt. “At that moment, Hobbes will be on duty with Sexton; Wickley will be at the helm. Won’t have to pull them from their post … And after we’ve gotten rid of those honest seamen …”

      “Understood,” replied Len