The Smuggler's Curse Read online

  ‘I surely does,’ Mr Smith replies, also grinning. ‘Look at the state of me. They drenched me to the skin.’

  I don’t understand how they can laugh when they’ve only just escaped being blown up.

  Within twenty minutes the cutter has eased away and almost disappeared, leaving only smoke to mark its place, but the experience leaves me terrified and still shaking. I’ve only been at sea ten hours, and have already nearly been killed twice. This is the first time I have ever been shot at, and I hope it is the last, though listening to the crew talk, they seem quite used to gunbattles.

  ‘Bosun Stevenson,’ the Captain orders. ‘Alter course. Nor’-west, direct for Singapore. Just as soon as that god-awful oily stink has cleared and that damn cutter is completely over the horizon. We don’t need to advertise to them which way we are headed.’

  I gulp in surprise. Singapore? Home of opium dens, smugglers and Chinese pirates. The most wicked place on earth. Bosun Stevenson looks up as if feeling the wind on his face. He pauses for a few seconds, considering, and nods slowly and deliberately. ‘This breeze will drop off before nightfall, but it’ll return. Smells like it’s going to hold, and then some. Shouldn’t be a problem, Captain. Usual rendezvous? Behind the island?’

  Straight into the dragon’s den. What has my mother sold me into? Could we really be heading to Singapore to buy opium to smuggle home in banana boxes, or will it just be tobacco and alcohol and other contraband goods? According to everyone who has ever been there, Singapore is the end of the civilised world where even worse villains than those in Broome have washed up. Mind you, compared to war-ravaged Sumatra, maybe Singapore is not so bad an option. Not that I have any choice in the matter, of course. Is Singapore to be the exotic port where I die?

  As the Bosun predicted, the breeze drops right off towards evening, and the Dragon barely moves. The Captain emerges from his cabin with a couple of pistols and a crate of empty bottles. ‘Boy! Here! Now!’ he commands.

  Oh God, I think, is he going shoot me? Have I been that much of a disappointment as a ship’s boy already?

  I reluctantly scurry to the rail. ‘Captain?’

  ‘This is a Colt .45 Single Action Cavalry Model. You hold this end, bullets came out the other. Don’t get them confused.’

  I look up at him. Is he making a joke? Who would confuse the two ends anyway?

  ‘You pull back this hammer with your thumb until the second click, sight down the barrel and gently squeeze the trigger. Got it?’

  I nod, still a little confused about what is happening. I have never even held a pistol before, let alone fired one.

  He hands me the gun, handle forward, then flings one of the bottles into the sea. It lands in the white wake of the rudder. ‘Now, take aim and hit it.’

  Take aim? He has to be kidding, I can hardly lift it. It weighs a ton.

  ‘Stretch your arm, not too rigid. Quickly now, before the bottle floats too far away.’

  I do as he says. The hammer slams home; the cartridge explodes, and a splash bursts in the sea several feet away from the bottle.

  ‘No, like this,’ he says. His gun fires without him seeming to aim, and the bottle shatters and immediately disappears. He flings over another bottle, and again I lift my arm and fire. The gun jerks and again I miss by miles. We do the same exercise over and over until the guns are empty, then we reload and start again. I never hit a bottle. My right hand and shoulder ache from the weight of the heavy Colt and the constant jerking as it fires, and my eyes and nose begin to sting from the stench of the gunpowder. I have one final shot. I sight down the barrel and squeeze the trigger. This time, the water spurts right next to the bobbing bottle.

  ‘At long last,’ sighs the Captain. ‘Right, you will continue practising with Mr Smith tomorrow and every day until you hit the target first time, every time. You never know when your life, or mine, might depend on you being able to shoot straight. Isn’t that so Mr Smith?’

  ‘Indeed, it is so, Cap’n,’ replies Mr Smith. ‘’specially in our business.’

  At dawn, Mr Smith and I stand at the rail. He has floated a small barrel out on the end of a thin line as the Dragon is now moving too fast to shoot at bottles.

  ‘Grip the ’andle, Red, not too tight. Turn sideways and get a good grip with your feet, wide apart. Then youse put your other ’and on your left ’ip to balance yourself. Got it? Cock the gun. Now look at the target and imagine the bullet ’eading straight for it.’

  I do as he says and nod.

  ‘Take a deep breath, ’old it, then slowly squeeze the trigger. Slowly, mind you.’

  I blink as the gun fires. To my surprise, the barrel jerks and leaps from the wake and falls back.

  ‘See, that wasn’t so ’ard. Now we’ll try it again fifty more times.’

  Later, when I stop to reload the Colt, I glance about and notice the Captain watching. He doesn’t make any acknowledgment but turns his head away to stare up at the set of the sails when he sees me look.

  SINGAPORE

  The next morning Mr Smith gives me the pistol again, and I spend another hour firing away. I think the constant noise might be annoying the crew as I see several of them glaring at me and muttering. I can’t win. If I stop, Mr Smith and the Captain will be angry, but if I continue, I can imagine one of the crew tossing me overboard to shut me up. They all seem hard enough and well capable of something like that.

  The following days pass quickly with shooting practice in the mornings, cleaning up after the Captain in the afternoons and then helping Sam Chi, the cook, prepare dinner. But it is the most miserable week of my life. None of the crew talk to me unless they have to, and none seems to care in the least that I’m so seasick I have to throw up over the side after nearly every meal.

  Not only am I still sick as a dog, but I’m burnt to a crisp, too. My sunburn hurts so much I almost cry, and then it begins to itch like a torment. I’m standing at a tin bowl in the galley washing dishes, feeling sore, tired, lonely and more homesick than I ever thought possible.

  ‘Let me have a look, boy,’ Sam Chi says when he sees me wince in pain.

  As I carefully take off my shirt, he makes tutting noises looking at my bright red shoulders.

  ‘Stand still.’ He empties the remains of the teapot into a bowl with olive oil and some herbs before rubbing it across my shoulders. ‘This’ll help. In a day or so you’ll be fine.’

  The cool tea immediately takes away some of the sting and I sigh with relief. He is right and the next morning much of the pain and itching has faded.

  I feel a bit more relaxed around Sam Chi after that. Everybody in Broome knows about Sam Chi. He is a good-looking bloke with big dark eyes, pearl white teeth and shiny, long black hair that falls halfway down his back. Apparently, it was his looks that got him into trouble, though, and caused a bigger scandal than even Broome is used to, and we’ve had plenty. They say Sam Chi had to run away to sea in a great big hurry when his Chinese wife, his Japanese wife and his Aboriginal sweetheart all found out about each other. None of their families were too pleased, so Sam Chi is a marked man with all sorts of angry fathers and brothers after his hide.

  True to his word, Bosun Stevenson has the Black Dragon off Singapore almost to the hour he predicted. I do not know how he manages it so precisely though he does spend a lot of time at the helm himself, looking up at the sun and feeling the breeze on his face while continually adjusting the canvas. The crew working the sails are well exhausted by the time he finishes with them.

  We drop anchor behind a rocky island just before sunset. The tide runs its way out, flowing quickly, and the ship pulls at anchor, but Bosun Stevenson seems unconcerned.

  Singapore island looms large out of the sea off the port bow. It appears to be a collection of extensive white buildings, wooden shop-houses, hundreds of ramshackle huts on stilts and a harbour jam-packed with countless sampans. Junks moored further out crowd the waterway, and a sickly sweet smell of sandalwood, cooking, rotting fis
h and overflowing drains wafts out from the island, along with the low din of thousands of people.

  An hour before arriving, the Captain had ordered the guns run out, primed and loaded with shot. Teuku and I had the job of carrying the gunpowder bags up from the ammunition locker on the deck below the ship’s waterline, up to each of the guns on the main deck. There are three cannons on each side as well as a long-barrelled bow chaser the men call Long Tom, and two stern carronades that fire small shot. My hand and arm still ache from all the pistol practice, but I am determined not to complain.

  ‘Mr Smith, what are we doing here?’ I ask. ‘And why are the cannons ready? Are we going to attack the harbour?’

  Mr Smith smiles at me as if I am simple. ‘We’re ’ere to trade, Red. Not fight. Just like them Dutchies. But the Cap’n likes to keep ready in case. The merchants ’ereabouts can’t be trusted, they can’t. Nary an inch, especially when what we’s be doing might be considered not quite legal like.’

  ‘But Singapore is British.’ I look at him, shocked. ‘It will be full of British officials and Customs. Won’t we be arrested for dealing in contraband goods and not paying that tax?

  ‘The excise duty, youse mean? Same as everybody else. We does it after dark. Simple. So long as they ’ave pro’ibited trade goods to sell, and the Capt’n ’as money, somethin’ will be arranged, youse can count on it.’

  ‘What will we trade?’ I ask, wondering how I can have been so naive. I knew Captain Bowen was a smuggler, but I’d never wondered where he got the goods he smuggled.

  ‘I dunno,’ says Mr Smith. ‘Whatever’s on offer. Wine, brandy, tea, silk, tobacco, spices, coffee, ladies’ lace from Europe, precious stones. Calfskin boots and fashions from France. Ivory sometimes. Rhino ’orn if we’re ’eadin’ to China. Guns. Everythin’ gets traded through Singapore. Even opium. Most anythin’ what can be sold for a profit while avoidin’ the Customs and the duty payable. But youse can’t trust nobody in these parts. Skin ya’ alive and sells ya ’ide for a satchel, given ’alf a chance, they would. I once seen a satchel made from a Englishman’s skin, I did.’

  I screw up my face at the thought of that.

  ‘An’ I once saw a Portuguese …’ continues Mr Smith, warming to his gruesome tale.

  ‘You ready, boy?’ interrupts the Captain, suddenly standing beside me.

  I stutter in surprise. ‘Wh-wh-what, sir?’

  ‘Are you ready for a trip into Singapore?’ he demands.

  Me? I am flabbergasted but nod in agreement. Several of the crew stare at me in jealousy. One spits on the deck as if disgusted at my undeserved good luck.

  ‘Mr Smith, of course,’ he continues. ‘And how about you, Mr Cord? You can handle yourself in a fight.’

  ‘Aye, Captain. I’ve the scars to prove it too,’ he answers with a grin.

  I sort of know Mr Cord, but not that well, as he is away at sea a lot. His kids go to school with me. His son Albert and I are friends, and we often go fishing and swimming at Town Beach together.

  ‘A fight?’ I ask, trying not to sound like a coward.

  ‘It probably won’t come to that, boy, but who can trust these Chinamen, eh Bosun Stevenson? Or their British colonial masters. They’re even worse. Pretend to be so civilised but they would sell their sisters for sixpence, every one of them. And their mothers.’

  The Bosun smiles. ‘Never a truer word, sir. Greedy colonial blighters. Greed, the root of all evil.’ Somehow, it doesn’t seem to occur to the crew that they are colonial blighters themselves.

  ‘The dinghy’s ready, Captain,’ he says a few minutes later.

  ‘In that case, let’s go ashore and pay our respects to a particular old pirate in this town and see about filling our hold.’

  ‘Pirate, Captain?’ I ask. ‘A real pirate?’

  ‘Captain Chang Pao. You’ve probably heard of him. He was once the biggest bandit in all of South East Asia. People used to quiver just at the mention of his name.’

  ‘Just like another captain we know,’ laughs the Bosun.

  ‘He says he’s retired from pirating,’ continues the Captain, ignoring the comment. ‘But not from dealing with Queen Victoria’s less law-abiding subjects, it seems.’

  CHANG PAO

  I follow the Captain uphill from the frantically busy harbour, along winding narrow streets teeming with throngs of people all shouting to be heard. Each side is crowded with shopfronts and market stalls. There are ducks, scorpions, seahorses, frogs, little birds and all sorts of other creatures tied up ready for sale. The smell of burning incense and sandalwood fills my nose, along with fish sauce and the stink of overflowing privies. People stare sullenly at us as we walk by, and no one smiles. I’ve never been in such a crowded place before. It’s like a hundred Broomes, or the world’s biggest bull ant nest.

  I have to half-run to keep up with the Captain’s long strides, and jump every so often to miss puddles and piles of mess and dung. Many of the buildings are large and impressive white houses but between them, shacks and humpies and shop houses fill the spaces. In the distance, past a massive white-walled church, I can see several drinking houses, with men spilling out into the street to enjoy the warm evening air. There is lots of laughing and fighting, just like at Ma’s hotel on a Saturday night. Hundreds of red-paper lanterns hanging above the shops give the street a strange glow. Bugs of all sizes swarm angrily around the lights.

  We have just reached the curved doorway of the church, when the Captain extends his hand to stop me walking forward. Something is wrong. As he does so, two men step from the shadow of the church doorway and block our way. The taller one holds a short dagger and the other man, much shorter and fatter, grips a cudgel loosely in his left hand. They both wear red sashes around their waists.

  The taller one says something in Malay and lifts his knife menacingly. It is not a big knife, just one for gutting fish, but it could have gutted both of us easily enough.

  ‘Over my cold and lifeless body, you wretched dog!’ declares the Captain. As he does so, he quickly steps to one side, wrenches the fat man’s cudgel straight from his hand and swings it upwards right into the taller man’s ear. It lands with a sickening crack. The man yells out in surprise and drops his knife to clutch at his smashed ear.

  The Captain grabs the fat man’s arm and pushes him backwards hard into the church door. As the man’s hand slams into the solid wood, it opens up, and the Captain plunges his own dagger right into the fat man’s palm, pinning it to the door.

  The tall man has fallen to his knees, dazed and in shock, clutching both hands to his bleeding ear and whimpering in pain.

  The Captain pushes him with the toe of his boot, and the man topples over and looks up, still bewildered at the sudden turn of events. ‘Now listen, you useless blowfish,’ the Captain snarls. ‘I want to see Chang Pao. Kindly go and tell the old villain, now, right now, that Captain Bowen will meet him in that drinking house at his earliest convenience.’ He points to a building across the street. ‘If you would be so kind.’

  The blowfish grunts, miserably.

  Reaching out, the Captain pulls his dagger free from the church door and the fat man’s hand. The Captain wipes the blood from the blade on the man’s shoulder, ignoring his scream of agony.

  ‘Pirating is one thing,’ the Captain continues conversationally. ‘But robbing an officer and gentleman in the street, and outside a church, is, well, quite unforgivable. Even insulting.’

  The man grunts again, probably not understanding a word the Captain says but realising, I think, that his life has just been spared.

  ‘Please tell Chang Pao there is no need to bring his whole crew. It is just a business deal I wish to discuss. Black Bowen, over there, soon.’

  The man nods as if he understands and edges his way towards the side street, leaving his friend lying on the ground in the church doorway.

  ‘Do they understand, Captain?’ I ask.

  ‘Who knows?’ replies the Captain, seemingly unruffle
d by his quick and unexpected fight. ‘But they would have caught the “Black Bowen” part easily enough, and that should get the old corsair down here from his big house up on the hill. They look like Malays. Locals. Chang Pao is Chinese but he employs a lot of them from these parts. You can tell a Chang Pao man by his red sash. Damn good sailors.’

  The Captain turns and continues on his way as I scurry along beside him, trying to keep up with his long strides, still unsure what I have just witnessed.

  I am surprised the Captain has turned his back on the men. I fully expect them to attack us from behind. But when I turn to check I see the fat man running as fast as his legs can carry him, towards the house, with his left hand thrust under his right armpit, to staunch the bleeding.

  The taller man now lies slumped forward against the church wall. He grips his small fish-gutting knife again, but this time, the hand that holds the handle remains still. A long-bladed dagger sticks out from the middle of his shoulder blades. He is as dead as one of the nails in the church door.

  Mr Cord stands over him, about to withdraw the blade, while further back Mr Smith stands in a shadow clutching a cocked pistol in each hand. A pool of blood spreads rapidly out from the church.

  The Captain pauses and briefly glances back when he notices me stop to stare, and I see a look pass between Mr Smith and the Captain.

  ‘Always a good plan to keep an eye out behind you, boy. You never know who is watching your back. Luckily, in our case, it is Mr Cord and Mr Smith.’

  ‘That pretend pirate, ’e didn’t know when ’e was beat,’ says Mr Smith. ‘Thought ’e’d ’ave ’is revenge for youse boxing ’is ears and ruining ’is robbing plans, ’e did. Came at our Cap’n from behind. Damn rude if youse ask me. Damn rude. Still, Mr Cord ’ere stuck ’im good ’n’ proper. That learned ’im, sure enough.’

  I watch mesmerised as a little river of shiny blood slowly makes its way across the hard ground towards me.