Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [103]
Here comes I, I am the Snipe
And I am carrying Stars and Stripes
Saint George thinks he’s valiant and bold,
If his blood’s hot, it’ll soon be cold!
The two men drew knives from sheaths inside their coats and, crouching on their creaky joints, exchanged murderous glares, ready to lunge at each other’s throat, until a third sailor, wearing a tartan sash across his sealskin jacket and a helmetlike worsted cap, interrupted them to declaim with a Scots burr:
I’m MacGlashan, ma body’s steeled
Nae man can make a Scotsman yield
I’d rather set ma blood to flow
And lay Snipe and George doon in the snow!
The first two valiant knights turned at the same time toward this new opponent, but then there came up from behind them an older, bulky, yellowish fellow dressed in thick furs, carrying what seemed to Brentford a huge piece of driftwood. In a stentorous Irish brogue, he declared:
In come I, ould Belsey Bob
On me shoulthers I carry me knob,
A fryin’ pan and wid yer thighs
I will make hot or cold mince pies!
Four men now stared at each other, weapons in hand, rolling defiant glassy eyes, threatening each other and not daring to make the first move. This sick pantomime went on for a while, until a smaller ashen fellow, with his nose fallen off, trotted quickly between them and announced himself:
In comes I, Little Twing Twang,
The lieutenant of the Press Gang.
I craved money from my mates
Now I’ll sweep the food from their plates!
As the others turned toward him, he put a black finger to his cracked lips, and winking a horrible wink, indicated to them the sixth protagonist, approaching slowly, like a ghost, into the mock limelight. This one was nothing more than a skeletal shadow, disappearing within a greatcoat much too large for his long bony limbs. One of his hands, cut at the wrist, had been replaced by wooden spoon tightly tied to the stump. He spoke with a hissing voice, as if in agony:
Here comes I, I’m Hump-back Jack,
Dyin’ shipmates on my back,
Out of mine I’ve got but five,
All the rest be starved alive.
The five others suddenly jumped on him and pretended to slaughter him with large stabbing gestures, as he dramatically knelt down on the icy ground. Then, instead of sharing their spoils, the killers turned against one another, fighting like knockabout clowns, until, one by one, they all fell on the snow in histrionic agonies, except the so-called Saint George, who, his foot on the heap of corpses, addressed the master of ceremonies:
Doctor! Doctor! I’ll give five pounds
To cure these men of mortal wounds
The master of ceremonies stood up and came forward to observe the agonized sailors, with his hands behind the back of his fur coat. Brentford, starting at the word doctor, thought he detected a passing resemblance to a portrait of Octave Pavy, the drowned doctor of the hideous Greely failure. His fear now blended with a strange feeling of fascination as he followed the dialogue:
I’m the famous Doctor Phoenix
And there is nothing I can’t fix
But I shall not come under ten,
announced the doctor proudly.
Saint George:
For Doctor Phoenix, ten Pounds then!
But please, what made you a doctor?
The Doctor:
I’ve travelled far and then some more: From the fire spot, the cupboard head,
Up stairs and then to bed.
Saint George:
Is that all, sir?
That far and no farther?
The Doctor:
I’ve travelled high, I’ve travelled low,
Through Hail, rain, and frost and snow.
I have been to the farthest North
Where roasted pigs come trotting forth
Forks in their arses, squealing Eat me
All the way to the Open Sea.
I have cured Charles Francis Hall
Rubbed him dry with a wet snowball
While my friend Doctor Bessels
Made him drink warm ash with pills.
Saint George:
These are credentials for sure,
Prithee tell me what can you cure?
The Doctor:
The itch, the stitch, the palsy, the scurvy
The rummelgumption in a thin man’s belly
And if a sailor has nineteen blue devils
Twenty