The Mutiny of the Elsinore. Джек Лондон

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СКАЧАТЬ sir,” the fellow answered, stopping immediately.

      “What’s your name?”

      Mr. Pike never spoke to a sailor save with a snarl.

      “Charles Davis, sir.”

      “What are you limping about?”

      “I ain’t limpin’, sir,” the man answered respectfully, and, at a nod of dismissal from the mate, marched off jauntily along the deck with a heodlum swing to the shoulders.

      “He’s a sailor all right,” the mate grumbled; “but I’ll bet you a pound of tobacco or a month’s wages there’s something wrong with him.”

      The forecastle now seemed empty, but the mate turned on the bosuns with his customary snarl.

      “What in hell are you doing? Sleeping? Think this is a rest cure? Get in there an’ rustle ’em out!”

      Sundry Buyers pressed his abdomen gingerly and hesitated, while Nancy, his face one dogged, long-suffering bleakness, reluctantly entered the forecastle. Then, from inside, we heard oaths, vile and filthy, urgings and expostulations on the part of Nancy, meekly and pleadingly uttered.

      I noted the grim and savage look that came on Mr. Pike’s face, and was prepared for I knew not what awful monstrosities to emerge from the forecastle. Instead, to my surprise, came three fellows who were strikingly superior to the ruck that had preceded them. I looked to see the mate’s face soften to some sort of approval. On the contrary, his blue eyes contracted to narrow slits, the snarl of his voice was communicated to his lips, so that he seemed like a dog about to bite.

      But the three fellows. They were small men, all; and young men, anywhere between twenty-five and thirty. Though roughly dressed, they were well dressed, and under their clothes their bodily movements showed physical well-being. Their faces were keen cut, intelligent. And though I felt there was something queer about them, I could not divine what it was.

      Here were no ill-fed, whiskey-poisoned men, such as the rest of the sailors, who, having drunk up their last pay-days, had starved ashore until they had received and drunk up their advance money for the present voyage. These three, on the other hand were supple and vigorous. Their movements were spontaneously quick and accurate. Perhaps it was the way they looked at me, with incurious yet calculating eyes that nothing escaped. They seemed so worldly wise, so indifferent, so sure of themselves. I was confident they were not sailors. Yet, as shore-dwellers, I could not place them. They were a type I had never encountered. Possibly I can give a better idea of them by describing what occurred.

      As they passed before us they favoured Mr. Pike with the same indifferent, keen glances they gave me.

      “What’s your name – you?” Mr. Pike barked at the first of the trio, evidently a hybrid Irish-Jew. Jewish his nose unmistakably was. Equally unmistakable was the Irish of his eyes, and jaw, and upper lip.

      The three had immediately stopped, and, though they did not look directly at one another, they seemed to be holding a silent conference. Another of the trio, in whose veins ran God alone knows what Semitic, Babylonish and Latin strains, gave a warning signal. Oh, nothing so crass as a wink or a nod. I almost doubted that I had intercepted it, and yet I knew he had communicated a warning to his fellows. More a shade of expression that had crossed his eyes, or a glint in them of sudden light – or whatever it was, it carried the message.

      “Murphy,” the other answered the mate.

      “Sir!” Mr. Pike snarled at him.

      Murphy shrugged his shoulders in token that he did not understand. It was the poise of the man, of the three of them, the cool poise that impressed me.

      “When you address any officer on this ship you’ll say ‘sir,’” Mr. Pike explained, his voice as harsh as his face was forbidding. “Did you get that?”

      “Yes.. sir,” Murphy drawled with deliberate slowness. “I gotcha.”

      “Sir!” Mr. Pike roared.

      “Sir,” Murphy answered, so softly and carelessly that it irritated the mate to further bullyragging.

      “Well, Murphy’s too long,” he announced. “Nosey’ll do you aboard this craft. Got that?”

      “I gotcha.. sir,” came the reply, insolent in its very softness and unconcern. “Nosey Murphy goes.. sir.”

      And then he laughed – the three of them laughed, if laughter it might be called that was laughter without sound or facial movement. The eyes alone laughed, mirthlessly and cold-bloodedly.

      Certainly Mr. Pike was not enjoying himself with these baffling personalities. He turned upon the leader, the one who had given the warning and who looked the admixture of all that was Mediterranean and Semitic.

      “What’s your name?”

      “Bert Rhine.. sir,” was the reply, in tones as soft and careless and silkily irritating as the other’s.

      “And you?” – this to the remaining one, the youngest of the trio, a dark-eyed, olive-skinned fellow with a face most striking in its cameo-like beauty. American-born, I placed him, of immigrants from Southern Italy – from Naples, or even Sicily.

      “Twist.. sir,” he answered, precisely in the same manner as the others.

      “Too long,” the mate sneered. “The Kid’ll do you. Got that?”

      “I gotcha.. sir. Kid Twist’ll do me.. sir.”

      “Kid’ll do!”

      “Kid.. sir.”

      And the three laughed their silent, mirthless laugh. By this time Mr. Pike was beside himself with a rage that could find no excuse for action.

      “Now I’m going to tell you something, the bunch of you, for the good of your health.” The mate’s voice grated with the rage he was suppressing. “I know your kind. You’re dirt. D’ye get that? You’re dirt. And on this ship you’ll be treated as dirt. You’ll do your work like men, or I’ll know the reason why. The first time one of you bats an eye, or even looks like batting an eye, he gets his. D’ye get that? Now get out. Get along for’ard to the windlass.”

      Mr. Pike turned on his heel, and I swung alongside of him as he moved aft.

      “What do you make of them?” I queried.

      “The limit,” he grunted. “I know their kidney. They’ve done time, the three of them. They’re just plain sweepings of hell – ”

      Here his speech was broken off by the spectacle that greeted him on Number Two hatch. Sprawled out on the hatch were five or six men, among them Larry, the tatterdemalion who had called him “old stiff” earlier in the afternoon. That Larry had not obeyed orders was patent, for he was sitting with his back propped against his sea-bag, which ought to have been in the forecastle. Also, he and the group with him ought to have been for’ard manning the windlass.

      The mate stepped upon the hatch and towered over the man.

      “Get up,” he ordered.

      Larry made an effort, groaned, and failed to get up.

      “I СКАЧАТЬ