Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, page 170
Clad in his rough clothes, with a bundle on his shoulder and his accumulated wages in his pocket, he entered Sydney for the second time, and walked with pleasure and some bewilderment in the cheerful streets, like a man landed from a voyage. The sight of the people led him on. He forgot his necessary errands, he forgot to eat. He wandered in moving multitudes like a stick upon a river. Last he came to the Domain and strolled there, and remembered his shame and sufferings, and looked with poignant curiosity at his successors. Hemstead, not much shabbier and no less cheerful than before, he recognised and addressed like an old family friend.
“That was a good turn you did me,” said he. “That railway was the making of me. I hope you’ve had luck yourself.”
“My word, no!” replied the little man. “I just sit here and read the Dead Bird. It’s the depression in tryde, you see. There’s no positions goin’ that a man like me would care to look at.” And he showed Norris his certificates and written characters, one from a grocer in Wooloomooloo, one from an ironmonger, and a third from a billiard saloon. “Yes,” he said, “I tried bein’ a billiard marker. It’s no account; these lyte hours are no use for a man’s health. I won’t be no man’s slyve,” he added firmly.
On the principle that he who is too proud to be a slave is usually not too modest to become a pensioner, Carthew gave him half a sovereign, and departed, being suddenly struck with hunger, in the direction of the Paris House. When he came to that quarter of the city, the barristers were trotting in the streets in wig and gown, and he stood to observe them with his bundle on his shoulder, and his mind full of curious recollections of the past.
“By George!” cried a voice, “it’s Mr. Carthew!”
And turning about he found himself face to face with a handsome sunburnt youth, somewhat fatted, arrayed in the finest of fine raiment, and sporting about a sovereign’s worth of flowers in his buttonhole. Norris had met him during his first days in Sydney at a farewell supper; had even escorted him on board a schooner full of cockroaches and black-boy sailors, in which he was bound for six months among the islands; and had kept him ever since in entertained remembrance. Tom Hadden (known to the bulk of Sydney folk as Tommy) was heir to a considerable property, which a prophetic father had placed in the hands of rigorous trustees. The income supported Mr. Hadden in splendour for about three months out of twelve; the rest of the year he passed in retreat among the islands. He was now about a week returned from his eclipse, pervading Sydney in hansom cabs and airing the first bloom of six new suits of clothes; and yet the unaffected creature hailed Carthew in his working jeans and with the damning bundle on his shoulder, as he might have claimed acquaintance with a duke.
“Come and have a drink!” was his cheerful cry.
“I’m just going to have lunch at the Paris House,” returned Carthew. “It’s a long time since I have had a decent meal.”
“Splendid scheme!” said Hadden. “I’ve only had breakfast half an hour ago; but we’ll have a private room, and I’ll manage to pick something. It’ll brace me up. I was on an awful tear last night, and I’ve met no end of fellows this morning.” To meet a fellow, and to stand and share a drink, were with Tom synonymous terms.
They were soon at table in the corner room up-stairs, and paying due attention to the best fare in Sydney. The odd similarity of their positions drew them together, and they began soon to exchange confidences. Carthew related his privations in the Domain and his toils as a navvy; Hadden gave his experience as an amateur copra merchant in the South Seas, and drew a humorous picture of life in a coral island. Of the two plans of retirement, Carthew gathered that his own had been vastly the more lucrative; but Hadden’s trading outfit had consisted largely of bottled stout and brown sherry for his own consumption.
“I had champagne too,” said Hadden, “but I kept that in case of sickness, until I didn’t seem to be going to be sick, and then I opened a pint every Sunday. Used to sleep all morning, then breakfast with my pint of fizz, and lie in a hammock and read Hallam’s Middle Ages. Have you read that? I always take something solid to the islands. There’s no doubt I did the thing in rather a fine style; but if it was gone about a little cheaper, or there were two of us to bear the expense, it ought to pay hand over fist. I’ve got the influence, you see. I’m a chief now, and sit in the speak-house under my own strip of roof. I’d like to see them taboo ME! They daren’t try it; I’ve a strong party, I can tell you. Why, I’ve had upwards of thirty cowtops sitting in my front verandah eating tins of salmon.”
“Cowtops?” asked Carthew, “what are they?”
“That’s what Hallam would call feudal retainers,” explained Hadden, not without vainglory. “They’re My Followers. They belong to My Family. I tell you, they come expensive, though; you can’t fill up all these retainers on tinned salmon for nothing; but whenever I could get it, I would give ’em squid. Squid’s good for natives, but I don’t care for it, do you? — or shark either. It’s like the working classes at home. With copra at the price it is, they ought to be willing to bear their share of the loss; and so I’ve told them again and again. I think it’s a man’s duty to open their minds, and I try to, but you can’t get political economy into them; it doesn’t seem to reach their intelligence.”
There was an expression still sticking in Carthew’s memory, and he returned upon it with a smile. “Talking of political economy,” said he, “you said if there were two of us to bear the expense, the profits would increase. How do you make out that?”
“I’ll show you! I’ll figure it out for you!” cried Hadden, and with a pencil on the back of the bill of fare proceeded to perform miracles. He was a man, or let us rather say a lad, of unusual projective power. Give him the faintest hint of any speculation, and the figures flowed from him by the page. A lively imagination and a ready though inaccurate memory supplied his data; he delivered himself with an inimitable heat that made him seem the picture of pugnacity; lavished contradiction; had a form of words, with or without significance, for every form of criticism; and the looker-on alternately smiled at his simplicity and fervour, or was amazed by his unexpected shrewdness. He was a kind of Pinkerton in play. I have called Jim’s the romance of business; this was its Arabian tale.
“Have you any idea what this would cost?” he asked, pausing at an item.
“Not I,” said Carthew.
“Ten pounds ought to be ample,” concluded the projector.
“O, nonsense!” cried Carthew. “Fifty at the very least.”
“You told me yourself this moment you knew nothing about it!” cried Tommy. “How can I make a calculation, if you blow hot and cold? You don’t seem able to be serious!”
But he consented to raise his estimate to twenty; and a little after, the calculation coming out with a deficit, cut it down again to five pounds ten, with the remark, “I told you it was nonsense. This sort of thing has to be done strictly, or where’s the use?”
Some of these processes struck Carthew as unsound; and he was at times altogether thrown out by the capricious startings of the prophet’s mind. These plunges seemed to be gone into for exercise and by the way, like the curvets of a willing horse. Gradually the thing took shape; the glittering if baseless edifice arose; and the hare still ran on the mountains, but the soup was already served in silver plate. Carthew in a few days could command a hundred and fifty pounds; Hadden was ready with five hundred; why should they not recruit a fellow or two more, charter an old ship, and go cruising on their own account? Carthew was an experienced yachtsman; Hadden professed himself able to “work an approximate sight.” Money was undoubtedly to be made, or why should so many vessels cruise about the islands? they, who worked their own ship, were sure of a still higher profit.
“And whatever else comes of it, you see,” cried Hadden, “we get our keep for nothing. Come, buy some togs, that’s the first thing you have to do of course; and then we’ll take a hansom and go to the Currency Lass.”
“I’m going to stick to the togs I have,” said Norris.
“Are you?” cried Hadden. “Well, I must say I admire you. You’re a regular sage. It’s what you call Pythagoreanism, isn’t it? if I haven’t forgotten my philosophy.”
“Well, I call it economy,” returned Carthew. “If we are going to try this thing on, I shall want every sixpence.”
“You’ll see if we’re going to try it!” cried Tommy, rising radiant from table. “Only, mark you, Carthew, it must be all in your name. I have capital, you see; but you’re all right. You can play vacuus viator, if the thing goes wrong.”
“I thought we had just proved it was quite safe,” said Carthew.
“There’s nothing safe in business, my boy,” replied the sage; “not even bookmaking.”
The public house and tea garden called the Currency Lass represented a moderate fortune gained by its proprietor, Captain Bostock, during a long, active, and occasionally historic career among the islands. Anywhere from Tonga to the Admiralty Isles, he knew the ropes and could lie in the native dialect. He had seen the end of sandal wood, the end of oil, and the beginning of copra; and he was himself a commercial pioneer, the first that ever carried human teeth into the Gilberts. He was tried for his life in Fiji in Sir Arthur Gordon’s time; and if ever he prayed at all, the name of Sir Arthur was certainly not forgotten. He was speared in seven places in New Ireland — the same time his mate was killed — the famous “outrage on the brig Jolly Roger”; but the treacherous savages made little by their wickedness, and Bostock, in spite of their teeth, got seventy-five head of volunteer labour on board, of whom not more than a dozen died of injuries. He had a hand, besides, in the amiable pleasantry which cost the life of Patteson; and when the sham bishop landed, prayed, and gave his benediction to the natives, Bostock, arrayed in a female chemise out of the traderoom, had stood at his right hand and boomed amens. This, when he was sure he was among good fellows, was his favourite yarn. “Two hundred head of labour for a hatful of amens,” he used to name the tale; and its sequel, the death of the real bishop, struck him as a circumstance of extraordinary humour.
Many of these details were communicated in the hansom, to the surprise of Carthew.
“Why do we want to visit this old ruffian?” he asked.
“You wait till you hear him,” replied Tommy. “That man knows everything.”
On descending from the hansom at the Currency Lass, Hadden was struck with the appearance of the cabman, a gross, salt-looking man, red-faced, blue-eyed, short-handed and short-winded, perhaps nearing forty.
“Surely I know you?” said he. “Have you driven me before?”
“Many’s the time, Mr. Hadden,” returned the driver. “The last time you was back from the islands, it was me that drove you to the races, sir.”
“All right: jump down and have a drink then,” said Tom, and he turned and led the way into the garden.
Captain Bostock met the party: he was a slow, sour old man, with fishy eyes; greeted Tommy offhand, and (as was afterwards remembered) exchanged winks with the driver.
“A bottle of beer for the cabman there at that table,” said Tom. “Whatever you please from shandygaff to champagne at this one here; and you sit down with us. Let me make you acquainted with my friend, Mr. Carthew. I’ve come on business, Billy; I want to consult you as a friend; I’m going into the island trade upon my own account.”
Doubtless the captain was a mine of counsel, but opportunity was denied him. He could not venture on a statement, he was scarce allowed to finish a phrase, before Hadden swept him from the field with a volley of protest and correction. That projector, his face blazing with inspiration, first laid before him at inordinate length a question, and as soon as he attempted to reply, leaped at his throat, called his facts in question, derided his policy, and at times thundered on him from the heights of moral indignation.
“I beg your pardon,” he said once. “I am a gentleman, Mr. Carthew here is a gentleman, and we don’t mean to do that class of business. Can’t you see who you are talking to? Can’t you talk sense? Can’t you give us ‘a dead bird’ for a good traderoom?”
“No, I don’t suppose I can,” returned old Bostock; “not when I can’t hear my own voice for two seconds together. It was gin and guns I did it with.”
“Take your gin and guns to Putney!” cried Hadden. “It was the thing in your times, that’s right enough; but you’re old now, and the game’s up. I’ll tell you what’s wanted now-a-days, Bill Bostock,” said he; and did, and took ten minutes to it.
Carthew could not refrain from smiling. He began to think less seriously of the scheme, Hadden appearing too irresponsible a guide; but on the other hand, he enjoyed himself amazingly. It was far from being the same with Captain Bostock.
“You know a sight, don’t you?” remarked that gentleman, bitterly, when Tommy paused.
“I know a sight more than you, if that’s what you mean,” retorted Tom. “It stands to reason I do. You’re not a man of any education; you’ve been all your life at sea or in the islands; you don’t suppose you can give points to a man like me?”
“Here’s your health, Tommy,” returned Bostock. “You’ll make an A-one bake in the New Hebrides.”
“That’s what I call talking,” cried Tom, not perhaps grasping the spirit of this doubtful compliment. “Now you give me your attention. We have the money and the enterprise, and I have the experience: what we want is a cheap, smart boat, a good captain, and an introduction to some house that will give us credit for the trade.”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Captain Bostock. “I have seen men like you baked and eaten, and complained of afterwards. Some was tough, and some hadn’t no flaviour,” he added grimly.
“What do you mean by that?” cried Tom.
“I mean I don’t care,” cried Bostock. “It ain’t any of my interests. I haven’t underwrote your life. Only I’m blest if I’m not sorry for the cannibal as tries to eat your head. And what I recommend is a cheap, smart coffin and a good undertaker. See if you can find a house to give you credit for a coffin! Look at your friend there; HE’S got some sense; he’s laughing at you so as he can’t stand.”
The exact degree of ill-feeling in Mr. Bostock’s mind was difficult to gauge; perhaps there was not much, perhaps he regarded his remarks as a form of courtly badinage. But there is little doubt that Hadden resented them. He had even risen from his place, and the conference was on the point of breaking up, when a new voice joined suddenly in the conversation.
The cabman sat with his back turned upon the party, smoking a meerschaum pipe. Not a word of Tommy’s eloquence had missed him, and he now faced suddenly about with these amazing words: —
“Excuse me, gentlemen; if you’ll buy me the ship I want, I’ll get you the trade on credit.”
There was a pause.
“Well, what do YOU, mean?” gasped Tommy.
“Better tell ’em who I am, Billy,” said the cabman.
“Think it safe, Joe?” inquired Mr. Bostock.
“I’ll take my risk of it,” returned the cabman.
“Gentlemen,” said Bostock, rising solemnly, “let me make you acquainted with Captain Wicks of the Grace Darling.”
“Yes, gentlemen, that is what I am,” said the cabman. “You know I’ve been in trouble; and I don’t deny but what I struck the blow, and where was I to get evidence of my provocation? So I turned to and took a cab, and I’ve driven one for three year now and nobody the wiser.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Carthew, joining almost for the first time; “I’m a new chum. What was the charge?”
“Murder,” said Captain Wicks, “and I don’t deny but what I struck the blow. And there’s no sense in my trying to deny I was afraid to go to trial, or why would I be here? But it’s a fact it was flat mutiny. Ask Billy here. He knows how it was.”
Carthew breathed long; he had a strange, half-pleasurable sense of wading deeper in the tide of life. “Well,” said he, “you were going on to say?”
“I was going on to say this,” said the captain sturdily. “I’ve overheard what Mr. Hadden has been saying, and I think he talks good sense. I like some of his ideas first chop. He’s sound on traderooms; he’s all there on the traderoom, and I see that he and I would pull together. Then you’re both gentlemen, and I like that,” observed Captain Wicks. “And then I’ll tell you I’m tired of this cabbing cruise, and I want to get to work again. Now, here’s my offer. I’ve a little money I can stake up, — all of a hundred anyway. Then my old firm will give me trade, and jump at the chance; they never lost by me; they know what I’m worth as supercargo. And, last of all, you want a good captain to sail your ship for you. Well, here I am. I’ve sailed schooners for ten years. Ask Billy if I can handle a schooner.”
“No man better,” said Billy.
“And as for my character as a shipmate,” concluded Wicks, “go and ask my old firm.”
“But look here!” cried Hadden, “how do you mean to manage? You can whisk round in a hansom, and no questions asked. But if you try to come on a quarter-deck, my boy, you’ll get nabbed.”
“I’ll have to keep back till the last,” replied Wicks, “and take another name.”
“But how about clearing? what other name?” asked Tommy, a little bewildered.
“I don’t know yet,” returned the captain, with a grin. “I’ll see what the name is on my new certificate, and that’ll be good enough for me. If I can’t get one to buy, though I never heard of such a thing, there’s old Kirkup, he’s turned some sort of farmer down Bondi way; he’ll hire me his.”
