Archipelago, Page 2

  Years later, Hans listened as someone read him a letter from Salvation Sally. He didn't believe it. It was simply incredible till he thought it out. Her words down on paper were just like the words of any other person. But the sound of them, how could that sound come through? And this was after he belonged to Marie and was completely familiar with Australian speech. But the dialect of Sally was beyond that. It was clear off the south end of the stick.

  And, Hanschen, what will you do when it's over with?” Marie asked him.

  “Ich weiß nicht wass Ich will,

  Ich möcht am liebsten sterben — ” he versed.

  “No, you're too young to die,” she said. “I didn't know my Dutchman liked verse.”

  “It's catching. Finnegan likes verse. He'll quote you Dante till your ears fall off. And Vincent will recite Corrymeela, and the Downfall of the Gael. And Szymanski likes verse.”

  “When I meet him, I'll know four of the Dirty Five. Then there can be only one surprise left in life. You say he's in town. You'll have to find him for me.”

  “We will find Casey. But don't go wandering. You belong to me.”

  They talked all night and exchanged childhoods. And childhood in summer in the country is very much alike in New South Wales and in Wisconsin. Then they agreed that one day while they still had time together they would get a couple of horses and ride all day in the country.

  The night man did not want to make any more coffee, and the morning man would not be there for an hour. It was still raining, and they walked in the rain till it started to get light. Then they stopped by for mass at St. Mary's.

  4.

  After Vincent and Finnegan had taken Loy and Margaret to their train all the bars were closed: a curtain had come down over the town with the night and not a beer was to be had. So they phoned Tom and Freddy at their barracks to talk over the situation. Thus they became the victims of a dark plot: for Tom and Freddy said that they would meet them, not at their barracks, not in any reasonable place, but on a dim corner two blocks from there and to be reached by a very long circuit. Their briefing was more intricate than for a major campaign.

  “Don't show a light and don't make a sound,” said Tom. “This has to be done quietly. It's you life. Here, let Freddy tell you.”

  “It's your life,” came the rusty voice of Freddy Castle through the phone.

  Finn and Vincent took the tram as they were told, later walked down an alley, crossed a street, circled back, walked down another alley, and came back a block from the tram stop. They followed instructions carefully.

  “Are the boys having us?” Finn asked. “This looks like the runaround.”

  “I guess they're having fun with us, but we'll wait for them,” Vincent offered.

  Tom and Freddy came out of the dark with a couple of big bundles. They signaled for silence, and talked in tones of hushed awe.

  “The only place to get beer after hours is at our wet canteen,” said Tom, “and the catch is that Yanks aren't allowed. T’was a bloody mess the last time a Yank crashed the club.”

  “Then that lets us out,” Vincent said reasonably.

  “No. We'll disguise you,” said Freddy. They unwrapped winter tunics and digger hats. They did this with some trepidation, for the very cobbles have ears.

  “Put these on,” said Tom Shire. “Keep the tunics buttoned very tight and the collars turned up. Keep the hats pulled down, and nobody will notice you.”

  “Judas priest, man, it's a hot night,” Vincent protested. “Everyone else is in summers. It's eighty degrees. We'll be conspicuous.”

  “Never mind,” said Freddy. “How could we possibly disguise you in summers? No, this is the only way to pass you in. Now here's a shot to get you in the mood. Raw stuff, what? Makes your eyes water. Let's just rehearse your dialogs a little, and then be on our way for the beers, being mindful always of the danger involved.”

  “We'd just as soon drink whisky tonight, and beer tomorrow,” said Finnegan.

  “No,” stated Tom Shire. “You like beer, and we're going to get it for you. We simply have to pass you in as Aussies. Vincent, that hair would give you away in a minute. Did you ever see an Aussie wear his hair like that? Fortunately, I have a pair of shears with me.”

  “All right.”

  Tom Shire took big good-humored cuts out of Vincent's hair and it piled up on the pavement in quite a heap. Tom was a large good-humored man and he enjoyed doing things like this for people.

  “Well, it's not a good job,” he said after a bit. “I'd be the last one to say it was a good job. Some of us were just never meant to cut hair. It doesn't make you look any more like an Aussie, but I believe that it does make you look less like a Yank: that's the main thing. We won't tell you what happened to the last Yank who tried to crash our club. Naturally there's a risk; we'd be remiss to minimize it.

  “The worst is that Bushmaster is orderly sergeant tonight. It's unfortunate that we have a bunch of sadists in our outfit, but you're likely to find them anywhere. Now then, Finn, forget that stuff you use instead of talk, and speak like an Aussie. Try ‘I say, dig, me mate and I need a brace of steins.’ ”

  “Hoy soy, dyg, me moit and oi need a broice of stoins,” Finnegan said perfectly.

  “That's wonderful,” said Tom. “Isn't that wonderful, Freddy? You talk just like an Aussie. Vince, you'd better let Finnegan do all the talking. He has a flair for dialect. Did you ever think of going on the stage, Finn? Here, have a couple of good stiff shots first. Once you really start to sweat under those tunics you'll feel better.”

  But the tunics were hot, and the boys had been navigating with difficulty for some time. They didn't feel at all better after they'd begun to sweat; it was itchy and sticky under those tunics on a hot summer night. They went clumsily over the back fences so bundled up, traversed a hazard course as difficult as anything they'd ever known in the army. They were torn and a little bloody. Even Tom and Freddy, much lighter clad, had a hard go of it. It was a trial, but they arrived at the barracks and the wet canteen.

  Bushmaster was orderly sergeant, and he resembled a gorilla, only larger, meaner, heavier-browed, darker, much more ferocious. “Evening, Yanks, make yourself at home,” he said. “I saw you around town today. What're you doing with those hot tunics on?”

  Then Bushmaster got a high-sign from Freddy and saw that he had about botched a hoax. It was saved, however. They had underestimated the degree of inebriation of Finn and Vincent. The four friends withdrew for a conference.

  “He knows we're Yanks,” said the new short-haired Vincent. “He says ‘Make yourself at home.’ What's all this stuff you were telling us?”

  “No, no, he's tricky,” said Tom. “He's shooting in the dark. It's a good thing you didn't say anything and let on you really are Yanks or he'd have been at your throats. That rather dark stain on the floor just beyond you, it won't come out. I won't say that's all of the last Yank who crashed here, but it's most of what was left of him. Now just walk up to Sergeant Bushmaster and talk the way we rehearsed it. Go ahead, talk to him, Finnegan. Fool him completely.”

  The boys had drunk a lot that day. Everything seemed plausible to them now. Finnegan turned his collar up even higher and pulled down the digger hat. It was too large for him and, but for his prominent nose, it would have slipped all the way to his shoulders.

  “Hoy soy, cobber, me moits and oi need a clutch of brews,” he said bravely.

  “You boys members of this outfit?” Sergeant Bushmaster asked.

  “Oh yes, me moit and oi, members both.”

  “There's only twenty-seven men in the outfit and I thought I knew them all,” said Bushmaster. “Well, sign your names and take your beer chits.”

  Finnegan signed. He signed without reading, and he was gilled. It was not a roster he signed. Instead, it was a curious document affirming that Yanks aren't in it at all with Aussies at beer drinking, that Yanks aren't in it with Aussies at any sort of drinking or at anything else. It contained
the statement that Yanks are still wet behind the ears, that Yanks eat such and such and do such and such, obscenities boldly spelled out. It was a long document and (though drawn up in a hurry) it covered nearly everything. Tom Shire had inspired it, but it was written by a scribe of genius.

  This is the thing that Finnegan signed, betraying his country. The document is still in the possession of a certain regiment today, in the keeping of an Aussie non-com club whose members are too young to have known Tom Shire and Freddy Castle: but they still cherish the affidavit.

  Then Finnegan advanced boldly to get the beers.

  “What's that?” the barkeep asked him.

  “It's a beer chit. It shows that I can buy beer here. I signed the register and Sergeant Bushmaster gave me a beer chit so I could buy beer.”

  “I never heard of a beer chit, Yank. You're being took. All you need to buy a beer is a zack.”

  “I don't even know what a zack is.”

  “A sixpence.”

  “You carried it off grandly,” said Freddy when Finn had returned with the beers. “There's still great danger, though. The last Yank caught crashing — pitiful case!”

  “Pitiful,” said Tom Shire.

  The four boys took a table against an engine room. It was very hot. There were other tables open, but they were not so well-suited to the special purpose.

  “Can't we turn our collars down just a little?” Vincent asked.

  “Oh man, it's your lives if you do,” Freddy told him. “Keep drinking the stuff as fast as you can, and we'll keep them coming. I always said that if I had to go I'd like to go with the foam of it on my mouth.”

  After they had had a few rounds of the steins they started on the Imperial Quarts. The Imperial is an Empire within itself. Its thirty-nine ounces have a jolt at the end, and the boys had been visiting the pubs all day. After each had had a pair they were looped and in grave danger of falling asleep.

  “Men, men,” Freddy warned. “You have to be alert. You can almost feel the threat. I hope you're well disposed of soul for whatever may come.”

  For Bushmaster was crossing over to them. But big Bushmaster had a failing. Though he was the meanest-looking sergeant in two armies, yet he couldn't stand to see the innocent suffer. And he had a decent man's aversion to seeing a situation milked.

  “You might as well take off the heavy stuff and you'll feel better,” he said. “Besides, that's my hat you're wearing, Finnegan. It's big enough for you to use it for a poncho but I'd rather you didn't.”

  “You're done for,” Freddy hissed, “but brazen it out. Yoi, your blood is on our hands. Say something.”

  “If we take them off,” said Finnegan to mighty Bushmaster, “you'll know we're Yanks, and we'll have had it.”

  “As far as I'm concerned you've had it now,” said Bushmaster. “You're toddly, boys; elephant's trunk, and all that. Clear out of your class: I've a three year-old sister who can spot you three and drink you under. I guess Yanks just can't handle the stuff. Ever think of switching to goats’ milk?”

  “We are drinkers from the word go,” said Vincent.

  “The word is gone. Are there any Yanks in your bunch who can drink at all?”

  “We have the champion, Bush, we have the champion,” Vincent maintained.

  “I don't know what he could be champion of. I'm the world's heavyweight champion myself. You couldn't get together fifty quid for a bet?”

  “A thousand,” said Finnegan. “How much is a quid?”

  “A pound. And don't be extravagant,” said Bushmaster. “Could you get fifty quid and have him face me at the Harbor House at noon tomorrow?”

  “Done,” said Finnegan. “We cover the bet.”

  “Dominion rules,” said Joe Bushmaster. “Uncapping at high noon. Quart to be drained in twenty minutes. No contest if both do not toss off six in two hours. That's to let you off easy if your man's completely outclassed. And from then on it's for as long as a man can answer the clock and the bottle. Tom and Freddy can officiate. They're trusted by both sides. What's my opponent's name?”

  “Schultz. John Schultz.”

  Bushmaster paled at this, for he knew Hans. But he paused only a moment.

  “I'll beat him,” he said. “I've beat krauts before.”

  “You know,” said Finnegan as they poured him into a cab, “I hated to give up that digger hat. For a while I felt at home in that hat.”

  5.

  “ — but before doing so I asked them severally whether they had any curse on them which forbade them to drink ale in the morning.”

   — Belloc

  It was daylight when Hans got back to the house, and Vincent and Finnegan were asleep. There should be several hours of peace. So he went to bed, tired and a little boozy from the laced coffee and the long sitting up: pleased with himself, with the world, with the town, with the furlough, and with the queenly Marie Monaghan. It is not often that one has nearly perfect peace with hardly a fly in the ointment.

  “And what is wrong with flies in ointment?” Marie seemed to ask in his mind. “Flies like ointment, and ointment is good for flies. Keeps them supple.”

  They had a date the next day at the Lotus Eaters. That day or the next, he wasn't sure now. But there would be no hurry: you couldn't get there before noon.

  “For, as Horace say, in the Land of the Lotus Eaters it is always afternoon.” It was Marie talking in his mind again.

  “Horace didn't say that,” Hans had to protest to her on the same distant mind level.

  “My uncle, Horace Higgenbotham, he said that.” That's the way Marie talked.

  With Marie in the Land of the Lotus Eaters to make time stand still! And this was possibly the place itself, here in the South. This was farther than Ulysses had gone, farther even than Ophir where the men of Solomon and Hiram had spent three years on the trip. This was the farthest spot in the world, the antipodes where all old legends are relegated. This southern land was the natural home of griffins and dragons.

  The chrome-colored dragon with the ivory grin broke into a clattering roar as its gullet heaved with insulting clangor, till Hans rose and throttled it with his hands. But his near anger vanished at once, and he smiled and released the alarm lever again. But now it could only go ‘tunkle tunkle’ weakly.

  “You can't wake anybody like that. Sound off like a real clock,” Hans told it. Vincent and Finnegan were still asleep. “Damn their black little hearts, did they want to get up early for something?” They took some stirring.

  “We wanted to wake up early so we could wake you up,” Finnegan said then. “We have you entered in a contest. And we need thirty pounds to make up our bet on you. Do you have thirty pounds?”

  “Yes. What is the contest?”

  “It's a beer-drinking contest with Joe Bushmaster. It's for the world's heavyweight championship. He's a hundred pounds heavier than you: he's like a gorilla.”

  “Nobody is a hundred pounds heavier than me, not even Henry. And there isn't one gorilla in five that can drink beer with me.”

  “We'll meet Tom and Freddy and see how he's training and what the odds are now. I don't see how you have a chance in the world. You sure you have thirty pounds?”

  “Oh yes. We'll bet.”

  They met Tom and Freddy and had breakfast. Everybody except Hans thought that Hans should have nothing at all to eat or drink. He had steak and eggs, however, and (enough to make your flesh creep, said Vincent) a quart of beer.

  “Bushmaster will have nothing to eat or drink until the uncapping,” said Tom Shire. “He had a hard workout last night, and is spending three hours in the gym this morning. He will dry out at least half a stone before contest time.”

  But Hans was not convinced. “There's nothing like a pure heart and a crafty mind to win a drinking contest,” he said. “Fortunately I have both.” And, as they walked about town, he entered a pub for another beer.

  “Somebody stop that man,” Finn howled. “We'll lose our money and n
ational honor.”

  “No. This is the way to train,” said Hans. “You train for boxing by boxing, with the lighter men for speed, with the heavier men for power. I will just spar with a few little glasses of shandygaff for the quickness of it, and then some porter for strength. And then I'll match a couple of heavy drinkers to get in real shape.”

  “But the contest is only two hours away,” Vincent objected.

  “Then I'll have to train really fast,” Hans resolved.

  The barkeep agreed that it was a mistake to go into a contest cold. Casey Szymanski said the same thing. Casey had just joined them. He was the fourth member of the Dirty Five.

  “There's a master in Chicago named Melchisedech Duffey who knows more about these things than anyone in the world,” said Casey. “When he lived in the East he used to run in the Celtic Marathon every year. Only he always ran the course once before sun-up to see if he was in shape. He made better times in the pre-dawn races than in the public races. He managed a fighter who always went on a bender the night before a fight and got into a fight of his own. He did this to see if he was in shape to fight.”

  “Did he win any fights?” Finnegan asked.

  “No. He never won a fight. But he lost all his night-before fights also which proves, not that the theory was wrong, but that the fighter couldn't fight. And after Duffey had managed the fighter, he married a widow who had shot her husband.”

  Hans had a beer with Casey then, and the minor partners continued to fret. They went to the Commodore and all had one. Bookies were taking odds on the contest now, and these were running eight to five in favor of Joe Bushmaster. They went to the Wooden Ship. They went to the Green Tree, and to the Old Red Lantern. It was in the Old Red Lantern than Jimmy Hansen caught up with them. Jimmy was the reporter assigned to cover the contest.

  “I'm not a good reporter,” he said. “When they mustered me out, I had to walk with a cane so I got this swagger one. Then I thought reporting would be a swagger job to go with it. They've got me for a greenhorn in Crime. This really should be covered by Sports, but Sports is almost always unavailable so early in the day. Besides, this might be more Social Scene than Sports. I fill in for all of them.”