The Kip Brothers. Jules Verne
coast that the brig followed is very jagged, banked with enormous rocks with bizarre shapes, which at a distance resemble gigantic mastodons fallen upon the shores. Here and there a succession of archways represents the periphery of a monastery, against which the waves, even in fine weather, hurl themselves furiously with a formidable roar. Any ship that was to find itself on the shore at high tide would be irredeemably lost; three or four rolls of the sea would demolish it. Fortunately, if it were seized by the tempest from the east or from the west, there would be a chance it might slip between the furthermost promontories of New Zealand. Moreover, there are two straits where it is possible to find shelter if you miss your entry into the ports: Cook’s, which separates the two islands, and Foveaux’s,3 open between Tawaï-Pounamou and Stewart4 Island, at its southern end. But one must beware of the dreadful reefs of the Snares,5 where the waves of the Indian Ocean and those of the Pacific collide, an area that is abundant in maritime disasters.
Inland from the coast extends a powerful mountain chain hollowed out by craters and furrowed by waterfalls, which feed rivers that are sizable despite their limited range. On the mountain slopes rise tiers of forests whose trees are huge beyond measure, pines a hundred feet tall and some twenty feet in diameter, cedars with olive-tree leaves, the resinous “koudy,” the “kaïkatea” with resistant leaves and red berries whose trunks are bare of branches except at the top.
Len Cannon and Bryce
If Ikana-Maoui can be proud of the richness of its soil, the vigor of its fertility, and that vegetation which rivals in certain areas the most brilliant productions of tropical flora, Tawaï-Pounamou has less to be grateful for. At the most a tenth of the territory can be cultivated. But in some special areas, the natives can still harvest a bit of Indian corn, various herbaceous plants, potatoes in abundance, and a profusion of ferns, the “pteris esculenta,” from which they make their principal food.
The James Cook at times approached so close to the shore, which Harry Gibson knew very well, that birdsong could be clearly heard on board ship, among others that of the “pou,” the most melodious. There was also the guttural cry of various parrots, ducks with yellow beaks and feet of scarlet red, without mentioning numerous other aquatic species, whose most hardy representatives flew among the rigging of the ship. And also, when the ship’s hull troubled their frolicking, with what rapidity fled those cetaceans, sea elephants, sea lions, and those multitudes of seals sought for their oily fat and their thick fur, two hundred of them producing nearly a hundred barrels of oil!
The weather held steady. If the breeze fell, it would not be before evening, since it came from land and, falling, would be blocked by the mountain chain.
Under a beautiful sun, the breeze blew through the higher zones and rapidly pushed the brig, which carried its staysail and its starboard studding sail. There was scarcely time to slacken the sails, to alter their course. So the new crewmembers could appreciate the sea-going qualities of the James Cook.
Around eleven o’clock, Mount Herbert, a bit before the port of Omaru,6 showed its swollen peaks rising to five thousand feet above sea level.
During the morning, Vin Mod sought in vain to talk with Len Cannon, whom he considered, and fairly, as the most intelligent and influential of the four recruits from Dunedin. Mr. Gibson, as we know, had ordered his sailors not to stay together on the same watch, and it was better, indeed, that they be kept separated from each other. But, not having to maneuver, the captain now left to the bosun the surveillance of the ship and he was busy in his cabin, updating the ship’s log.
At that moment Hobbes was at the helm. Flig Balt was strolling from the mainmast to the stern, on either side of the crew quarters. Two other sailors, Burnes and Bryce, were going back and forth along the rail without exchanging a word. Vin Mod and Len Cannon happened to be together downwind, and their conversation could not be heard by anyone.
When Jim, the cabin boy, approached them, they dismissed him rather curtly, and even, just to be safe, Bosun Balt sent him off to polish some of the copper instruments on the bridge.
As for the two other comrades of Len Cannon, Sexton and Kyle, they were not on duty and preferred fresh air to the stuffy atmosphere of their quarters. Koa, the cook, on the foredeck, amused them with his crude remarks and his abominable grimaces. This native was very proud of the tattoos on his face, torso, and limbs, this “moko”7 from New Zealand where the skin is deeply furrowed instead of scratched, as is done by other people of the Pacific. This operation of “moko” is not practiced on all the natives. The “koukis” or slaves are not worthy of it, nor are people of the lower class, unless they have distinguished themselves at war by some feat of arms.
So Koa took extraordinary pride in them.
And—which seemed to greatly interest Sexton and Kyle—he was pleased to give them a detailed explanation about each of his tattoos; he told of what circumstances his chest had been decorated with this or that design; he pointed at his forehead, which bore his name engraved permanently, and which for nothing in the world would he erase.
Moreover, among such natives, their cutaneous system, thanks to these operations that extend over the whole surface of the body, gains a great deal in thickness and solidity. Hence their resistance to cold during the winter and to mosquito bites. How many Europeans, at this expense, would thank themselves for being able to brave the attack of those accursed insects!
A tattooed New Zealand native*
While Koa, feeling himself instinctively attracted by a quite natural sympathy toward Sexton and his comrade, was setting up the basis of a strong friendship, Vin Mod was working on Len Cannon who, for his part, was most happy to see him approach:
“Eh, Cannon, my friend,” said Vin Mod, “so here you are aboard the James Cook. A pretty fair ship, isn’t she? And she’ll spin off eleven knots without your having to hold her hand.”
“So you say, Mod.”
“And with a fine cargo in her belly. Worth a lot …”
“So much the better for her owner.”
“Owner, sure … or anybody else … In the meantime, all we have to do is cross our arms while she’s running good.”
“Today it’s fine,” replied Cannon. “But tomorrow … who knows?”
“Tomorrow … next day … on and on!” exclaimed Vin Mod, patting Len Cannon’s shoulder. “But it’s better than just staying on land, right? Where would you be, your friends and you, right now if you weren’t here?”
“At the Three Magpies, Mod.”
“No, Adam Fry would’ve thrown you out, after the way you treated him. Then the police would’ve taken you in, all four of you. And I suppose, since this wouldn’t be your first appearance in court, they’d have favored you with one or two good months of rest in the Dunedin prison.”
“Prison on land or brig at sea, all the same thing,” answered Len Cannon, who didn’t sound too resigned to his fate.
“Oh, come now!” exclaimed Vin Mod, “sailors talking like that! …”
“It wasn’t our idea to sail away,” declared Len Cannon. “If it wasn’t for that miserable brawl yesterday, we’d already be off to Otago.”
“To work, to slave, to die of hunger and thirst, of course, but what for?”
“To make a fortune …,” Len Cannon replied.
“Make a fortune! … by placer mining?” answered Vin Mod. “Why there’s nothing left to extract from there. Haven’t you seen what they look like? The ones they’ve brought back? Just stones! All you want! And you can load yourself up with