Arriving at the mizzenmast, he looked for Sexton and Bryce in vain; they were supposed to be on duty but neither was there.
Wickley, whom he asked, just shrugged his shoulders.
“Where are they?” Len Cannon asked.
“In their quarters … dead drunk … both of them!”
“Ah, those louts,” murmured Len Cannon. “They’ll be out of it all night long. Nothing to be done about that!”
Back at their quarters, he found his comrades sprawled out on their cots. He shook them … Real louts, for sure! … They had stolen a bottle of gin from the storeroom. They drained it, to the last drop. Impossible to drag them out of their stupor, they wouldn’t revive until morning. Impossible to tell them about Vin Mod’s plans! Certainly couldn’t count on them to execute his plans before sunrise, and without them, the sides were too unequal!
When Flig Balt was informed, one can well imagine his rage. Vin Mod could not calm him down without great effort. He too would have sent both of them to the gallows, those wretched drunks! But anyway, nothing was permanently lost. What couldn’t be done that night would simply be done the next. They’d keep an eye on Bryce and Sexton and stop them from drinking. In any case Flig Balt would be careful not to denounce them to the captain, neither for drunkenness, nor for stealing the bottle. Mr. Gibson would send them to the bottom of the hold until the brig reached Wellington, then turn them over to the maritime authorities, and disembark perhaps Len Cannon and Kyle as well, as Vin Mod saw it. It would be wise not to say a word. Moreover, sailors do not denounce each other. Neither Hobbes, nor Wickley, nor Burnes, nor even the ship’s boy would talk, and the captain would have no cause to intervene.
The night went by, and nothing disturbed the calm aboard the James Cook.
When Harry Gibson went up to the bridge early the next morning, he noted that the men on duty were at their post, and the brig on a proper course at right angles to Christchurch after having passed the Banks Peninsula.
The day of the 27th was off to a good start. The sun broke above the horizon and promptly dissipated the haze. One could believe that the sea breeze would soon engulf the bay, but beginning at seven o’clock it came from the land and, no doubt, would keep to the northwest as the day before. By hugging the wind, the James Cook would reach the port of Wellington without changing its tack.
“Nothing new?” asked Mr. Gibson of Flig Balt when the bosun came out of his cabin, where had spent the last hours of the night.
“Nothing new, Mr. Gibson,” he replied.
“Who’s at the helm?”
“The sailor Cannon.”
“You haven’t had to admonish the new recruits while on duty?”
“Not at all, and I think those men are better than they seem.”
“So much the better, Balt, for I believe that in Wellington as in Dunedin they must be short of crews.”
“That’s probable, Mr. Gibson.”
“And, all in all, if I could work it out with these fellows …”
“It would be for the best,” answered Flig Balt.
The James Cook, continuing north, went along the coast at just three or four miles an hour. The details came into view more clearly under the heat of the sun’s rays. The high mountains of the Kaikoura,13 which cross the province of Marlborough,14 raised their capricious ridges to a height of ten thousand feet. On their flanks spread thick forests, gilded with sunlight, as streams of water flowed down toward the coastline.
Yet the breeze seemed to be calming, and the brig that day would make fewer miles than the preceding one. It was unlikely that they would arrive in Wellington that night.
Toward five o’clock in the afternoon, they could just make out the peaks of Ben More,15 to the south of the little port of Flaxbourne.16 It would take another five or six hours to reach the opening of Cook Strait. Since this passage runs from south to north, it would not be necessary to change the ship’s speed.
Flig Balt and Vin Mod were thus assured of having all night to accomplish their plans.
It goes without saying that the participation of Len Cannon and his comrades was settled. Sexton and Bryce, their drunkenness dissipated, and Kyle forewarned, had made no real protest. With Vin Mod supporting Len Cannon, they just waited for the right moment to move. Here were the conditions called for. The plan was as follows:
Between midnight and one o’clock, while the captain was asleep, Vin Mod and Len Cannon would penetrate into his cabin, gag him, carry him to the rail and throw him off into the sea before he had time to utter a cry. At the same time, Hobbes and Burnes, being on duty, would be seized by Kyle, Sexton, and Bryce and subjected to the same fate. That would leave Wickley on lookout; Koa and Flig Balt could easily subdue him, as well as the cabin boy. Once the plot was carried out, the only ones left on board would be the authors of the crime. There would not be a single witness, and the James Cook, at full sail, would soon reach the Pacific east of New Zealand.
All chances thus favored the success of this wretched plot. Before dawn, under the command of Flig Balt, the brig would be already far from these parts.
It was about seven o’clock when Cape Campbell17 was observed in the northeast. It was, properly speaking, the southernmost boundary of Cook Strait, matched by, at a distance of some fifty miles, Cape Palliser,18 the extremity of the isle of Ikana-Maoui.
The brig followed the coastline within less than two miles, all sails set, even the studding sail, for the breeze fell with the evening. The shore was clear, bordered with basaltic rocks, which form the foundation of the interior mountains. The crest of Mount Weld19 was visible like a point of fire under rays of the setting sun. Although the tides of the Pacific are of little importance, a current from the shore flowed northward and favored the progress of the James Cook toward the sea.
It was at eight o’clock that the captain would probably be in his cabin after having left the bosun on duty. They would only have to watch out for the passage of ships at the opening of the strait. Moreover, the night would be clear, and no sail appeared on the horizon.
Before eight, however, some smoke was sighted, astern and off the starboard side, and they were not long in seeing a steamer rounding Cape Campbell.
Vin Mod and Flig Balt were not put out. Surely, given its pace, it would soon have passed the brig.
It was a government mail carrier, which had not as yet shown its colors. Now at this instant a rifle shot was heard, and the British flag was unfurled from the yardarm.
Harry Gibson had stayed on the bridge. Was he going to remain there as long as the mail carrier was visible, whether it intended to cross the strait or head for Wellington?
That’s what Flig Balt and Vin Mod wondered, not without some concern and even a certain impatience, as they were so late being alone on the bridge.
An hour stretched by. Mr. Gibson, seated near the crew quarters, seemed disinclined to retire. He exchanged a few words with the helmsman Hobbes and watched the packet, which was now less than a mile from the brig.
Imagine how disappointed Flig Balt was, along with his accomplices, a disappointment bordering on rage. The English packet was moving at slow speed, and little steam puffed out of its exhaust. It rocked to the undulation of the long swell, barely troubling the water from the wash of the propeller, making no more wake than the James Cook.
Why had this ship slowed down so much? … Had some misfortune befallen the engine? Or was it simply a reluctance to enter the port of Wellington at night, where the channel offered so many difficulties? In any event, for one of those reasons, no doubt, it seemed to have decided to stay until dawn under low steam and, consequently, in view of the brig.