The Smuggler's Curse Read online

  ‘Red, you can take a turn on the wheel. Join Mr Cord there. Let him guide you and go with his feel,’ calls Bosun Stevenson, as soon as he sees me. ‘Nothing like learning the hard way.’

  I think I may have grown an inch or two at that moment. I don’t look to see what the Captain thinks of the idea of me taking the helm, though I can guess his reaction.

  Mr Cord doesn’t seem that happy about me joining him, but he steps aside and indicates where I should stand. ‘Make sure you can see the compass,’ he says. ‘Legs apart, and get a good balance.’

  I do as he says and grab hold of two of the spokes on the polished wooden and brass wheel.

  ‘Now you keep an eye on the jib near its front edge. If it starts to luff or flutter, we turn away from the wind until it stops. Only a tiny amount mind you, so watch yourself. Nothing sudden, boy.’

  Even as I stand there gripping the helm, I can feel the temperature plummet. Two days ago, it had been so stifling hot we had nearly died of heat stroke, but now the wind fairly howls and soon showers of salt spray blow horizontally. It feels like little knives cutting into my face.

  It takes four of the crew to haul the patched mainsail to the masthead and it flaps and flicks about like a demented soul until it catches the wind, then fills to stretching.

  ‘Ease it out!’ yells the Bosun. ‘More! More! A tad more. She likes this best,’ he says, admiringly, as the Black Dragon keels over to starboard a few degrees, raises her nose and visibly quickens the pace. As she settles into the broad reach, I chance a quick peek over my shoulder. The boat’s wake races back away from us, leaving a long white trail. We are running the same direction as the waves, but at an angle so the boat slides smoothly down each one. Following astern of us and growing closer, the thick, dark grey clouds fill the horizon like a boxer’s bruises.

  Captain Bowen stands at the stern rail facing forward, his face wet with salt spray. He laughs happily as if he does not have a care in the world. ‘Sixteen knots, I’d estimate, Bosun, or I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.’

  ‘She’s at God’s own speed, indeed, Captain. Eighteen a’fore too long, maybe?’ replies Bosun Stevenson. ‘A fair clip.’

  Land appears, dark and ominous, in what feels like no time at all. Huge white waves break against the entire coastline, and although it consists mostly of jungle-covered hills, I can see no sign of a cove. There is not even a break in the surf.

  ‘I’ll take her from here, Red,’ says Bosun Stevenson. ‘You can take a rest too, Mr Cord, as soon as we trim the main. Rowdy!’

  ‘Mr Teuku?’ asks the Captain, his voice sounding concerned. He too has apparently noticed the unbroken wall of waves.

  ‘You can’t see the inlet directly on, Captain, and there are no landmarks on the hills that I can think of. The river mouth cuts back into the coast at a sharp angle, so it’s hidden by a large rock outcrop. We’ll need to run along the coast northwards and look backwards. Then we’ll see it.’

  It takes at least another fifteen minutes before Teuku calls out, waving his arm. ‘That’s it, Bosun. There, below the highest point. There’s the inlet.’

  SAFE HARBOUR

  Teuku is right. Hidden behind a rocky hill, the river mouth is about thirty yards wide, more than broad enough for the Black Dragon to lay up from the storm. A steep-sided valley stretches back inland, but the river soon changes direction so we cannot see how far it continues. All we have to do now is manoeuvre the Dragon into the gap with a driving wind behind us, a rising swell, and the light fading as the clouds grow closer. Even for Bosun Stevenson, this looks nigh on impossible. We could very easily be beached or wrecked if he does not guide the Dragon exactly right. I sure hope his Lord is watching over him right now. Or even Saint Brendan.

  About three hundred yards from the shore, on the seaside of the breakers line, the Bosun orders all sails dropped. The crew rush to lower the jibs and lash down the flogging canvas of the foresail and mainsail to their booms. No longer moving forward, the Dragon begins to wallow like a sick whale.

  ‘Now this is the tricky part,’ says Bosun Stevenson, looking over the sea and into the dark churning water beneath us.

  He is not jesting. One at a time, the Bosun has both dinghies lowered. Eight of us clamber over the side, down the rope ladder and into the bucking boats.

  ‘Get a move on, smite you,’ Bosun Stevenson calls over the wind. ‘Or you’ll have us on the beach like that accursed Dutchy frigate.’

  A line is thrown to the man in the stern of each dinghy, who immediately ties it to a cleat. Within seconds, we haul our oars against the water with all our strength, knowing our lives may well depend on it. Our backs bend with the strain, and the towline rips taut with each surge, but the Dragon hardly budges. It seems we are not making any progress at all, but we must be inching forward as, after what seems like an eternity, the river mouth eventually appears directly in front of us and we slowly tow the Dragon into the inlet. I don’t believe my poor aching muscles will ever recover.

  As the Dragon creeps into the calmer water, the wind falls away in the protection of the hill. We slump over our oars, exhausted, panting and gasping for air, not saying a word.

  ‘Well done, men,’ calls the Captain from up at the railing.

  In the dim light, I can just make out a shape on the left bank of the river. Up against the cliff, a tiny house has been built on a broad rock shelf at the river’s edge. The house is not quite derelict but is well on the way. It has wooden walls and coconut thatching on the roof. Green slime and moss colour the grey wood. About fifty yards further along a pathway, another house has collapsed into the river. The back and half a side wall remain standing, but the entire front of the building has disappeared, along with the pathway, leaving a skeleton of roof timbers fallen and hanging at all angles.

  Although the water in the inlet is much calmer than the sea outside, it still surges, and waves lap and splash angrily at the rocky bank.

  ‘Boy!’ The Bosun looks down to our dinghy from up on the bow of the Dragon. ‘Captain Bowen tells me you can swim.’

  How does he know that?

  ‘If I throw you a light heaving line, do you think you can get it to the shore? By that first house, and haul across a stern mooring line?’

  It will not be a problem. I am dead tired, but it is not very far, and I cannot get any wetter. In fact, the water may be warmer. Getting in will be easy enough, however climbing up the slimy rocks onto the riverbank could be more difficult. I cannot see one yet, but hopefully, this place has a landing for boats.

  The thin line coils out in an arc and lands in the vessel, directly at my feet. I strip off my shirt and grab the line in my teeth, about to slip into the water.

  ‘Good luck, son,’ says Mr Smith, his eyes suddenly full of pity. He looks like he expects me to sink straight to the bottom. Or has he seen sharks in the water or crocodiles waiting at the inlet’s edge?

  A surge carries me right to the bank after only a few strokes. A little way along, I find some stairs that have been chiselled in the rock, creating a makeshift dock. I take each step very carefully, leaning right forward and using my hands to balance as the steps are as slippery as mud. Luckily, I reach the path without falling.

  I haul over the mooring rope that has been tied to the end of my thin line and look about for somewhere to tie it. Near the steps, several old and rusty cannon barrels have been upended and set in the ground as bollards. One even has a loop of rotten hemp still hanging off it, the boat it had been attached to long since gone.

  It is now easy for both dinghies to pull up alongside. Anywhere else and they would be dashed against rocks and holed.

  ‘Teuku!’ calls Bosun Stevenson as soon as he comes ashore. ‘Scout about and fetch some firewood. We can all do with a good big bonfire to dry our weary bones.’

  That’s a cheek, I think. Bosun Stevenson has been at the bow guiding the Dragon in. We are the ones who have heaved on the oars, like galley slaves, until we have broken backs
and blistered hands.

  I push the teak door of the first old house with my shoulder. It had originally been painted blue, but most of the paint has faded and peeled off. It groans as I slowly prise it open, its hinges creaking in protest. Inside it is dark, as the only window has been half-boarded up, but my eyes soon adjust to the gloom. A few coils of rope and half-a-dozen fishing nets are piled against the wall on my left. On the opposite wall, five sleeping cots with coconut fibre mattresses are lined up. In the centre of the room stands a long, battered table, and, at the other end, a small fireplace with a blackened iron cooking pot dangling over a pile of ash. It does not look like anyone’s real home, but it does look like it has been used recently.

  ‘I think this will do nicely until the storm blows over,’ says Bosun Stevenson. He stands behind me in the doorway rubbing his palms together to warm himself. ‘What do you think, Red?’

  I’m sure he doesn’t really want my opinion. ‘Sir?’ I reply, surprised that he has actually used my name for the first time.

  ‘The Captain should be pleased with you. He won’t say, but you could be starting to earn your keep.’ He pauses for a moment and then laughs. ‘Not that we’ve earned enough to pay anyone’s keep on this voyage.’

  ‘No, sir.’ The Bosun must be changing his mind about me. There has been no talk of using my poor miserable hide for an anchor or anything like that for ages now.

  ‘Still,’ he continues. ‘Once the storm is over I’m sure Captain Bowen will think of something to pay our way. He always does.’

  ‘He always does what, Bosun Stevenson?’ asks the Captain as he steps in. He holds a lantern high, suddenly lighting up the room.

  ‘Save the day, sir,’ replies the Bosun, slightly embarrassed.

  ‘Thank you for your faith in me, Bosun Stevenson, however, I must confess, I’m a little lost for inspiration in this instance,’ continues the Captain. ‘The trouble is, those Malayan bilge rats have all our stake money, damn their eyes, and no doubt our intended brandy. If they haven’t drunk it all by now.’

  ‘Never fear sir, a good hot meal and a decent night’s sleep, and I’m sure you’ll come up —’

  ‘Capital idea, Bosun Stevenson. I could do with both.’

  ‘I’ll go and see to the fire, sir.’ The Bosun nods his head and turns to the door. ‘Teuku’ he yells. ‘Where is that useless excuse?’ he mumbles to himself.

  I think that is unfair considering Teuku has found this safe haven for us. If it hadn’t been for him, we would probably be smashed up and drowned by now.

  GUN SMUGGLERS

  The lugger arrives soon after dawn. The wind has eased a little after the howling gale of the night before, but it still hides the noise of their arrival.

  Teuku and I are at the derelict house further up the river salvaging roof timbers for firewood when Teuku sees it approaching against the pale sky. ‘Red,’ he whispers. ‘Get down. Look.’

  We crouch behind a pile of fallen timbers.

  From its shape, the boat looks like a pearling lugger out of Broome, but it is in a very shabby state with a jib the colour of long-brewed tea, and patchy, peeling paintwork.

  There only seems to be four men on deck, two pulling on sheets as the skipper manoeuvres the boat between the riverbanks, and a third on the bow, watching for the depth. Being much smaller than the Dragon, they are able to get in without having to tow her.

  ‘Pirates?’ I whisper. A boat that shabby has to be a pirate as far as I am concerned. I’ve read Treasure Island and know exactly what pirates look like.

  ‘Could be,’ answers Teuku. ‘Though probably not in a vessel like that. Too slow. I’ll stay here and watch them. You creep along the cliff edge and get back and warn the Captain. He’ll know what to do. Don’t make a sound and don’t let them see you. Who knows who they are? The Captain doesn’t trust anyone.’

  He does not need to tell me twice.

  I arrive back at the blue door puffing. The Captain sits with the Bosun at the table nursing a hot mug but he knows as soon as he sees me that something is wrong. The look on my face must give it away. He springs to his feet and listens intently while I explain.

  ‘Show us,’ he says.

  I lead them along the path until we can see the boat. It is making slow progress, almost steering by the jib alone. ‘There, Captain,’ I whisper. ‘See.’

  ‘You thinking what I am?’ asks the Bosun.

  The Captain nods. ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. Sims that will be. May an eternal curse befall him, the boiled-brain barnacle.’

  ‘Men,’ he announces back in the house, his voice quiet and calm as always. ‘I know who that is out there, and he’s as nasty a piece of work as the Devil has ever created. He’ll try something, of that we can be sure. If we were on the Dragon, I would have blown him out of the water at first sight. But they are out there, and we are in here without our cannon.’

  ‘Who is it, Captain, if I may be so bold?’ asks Mr Cord.

  ‘If I’m right, Mr Cord, his name is Josiah Sims. He’s plied the Straits for years, and before that he was a filthy blackbirder, capturing South Sea Islanders and selling them as slaves to sugarcane growers in Queensland.’

  Bosun Stevenson looks a little embarrassed. I had heard that he too may have possibly served time on a blackbirder in his younger days, before he had seen the error of his sinful ways and become God fearing.

  ‘We have six rifles here,’ the Captain continues. ‘So Bosun, six men up the cliff to mark them while I go and see if I’m right. I’ll give you a few minutes to get in position, but keep well hidden. Mr Smith, you go with them. We’ve all seen you shoot, and not just the cannons. If the skipper tries any lark at all, any signal, you shoot him first. Right between the eyes, if you please, Mr Smith.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And if you have to start firing remember it will be me, your beloved Captain, between you and your targets. We may have had our differences, but this is not the time to settle them. And men,’ the Captain adds, before they file outside. ‘As I often say, set them to think you are about to do something, then do the exact opposite. It will throw them every time and leave them bewildered.’

  ‘Or dead,’ mutters someone behind me.

  ‘Or dead,’ echoes the Captain. ‘An even better idea in this case.’

  As the lugger gets closer I can see the words, Loggerhead Cossack, across her stern in faded gold letters.

  The Loggerhead glides to the steps close to where our two dinghies are tied and gradually comes to a halt. A crew member jumps the short distance to the path and pulls on a mooring rope. He is about to tie it to one of the cannon bollards when he sees the Captain striding towards him.

  The Captain stops alongside the boat and stands with his hands on his hips. He frowns but does not say a word.

  ‘Well, I never,’ calls the man at the tiller. ‘Black Bowen. I thought you’d been called to dance the hempen jig years ago.’

  ‘I see your seamanship is still as bad as your manners, Captain Sims,’ the Captain replies, his voice sarcastic. ‘Hanging is too good for me, they say. Though I would have hanged any one of my men if they handled a ship so poorly.’

  ‘If I was one of your men I would’ve hung myself,’ laughs Captain Sims. ‘And what are you doing this side of the equator, this fine day, Captain Bowen?’ He too sneers at the title.

  ‘Just sheltering from the storm. And you, Sims?’ asks our Captain. ‘Other than interrupting my morning constitutional?’

  Even from where I hide behind the shack, it is obvious these two men dislike each other intensely.

  ‘You call that draught a storm? We are just over here doing a little trade with our,’ he pauses. ‘Oriental colleagues.’

  Two of Sims’ crewmembers have moved to the dock side of the lugger, either to listen or for some other more sinister purpose. All three have pistols tucked in their belts and wear knives. The man on the path still stands holding the mooring rope,
his mouth full of yellow teeth clenched in a mocking smile.

  ‘That Black Dragon out there?’ Sims says, turning to look at our boat anchored in the middle of the river, with one long stabilising rope from her stern to near where the Captain stands. ‘I’ve ’eard about ’er. She’s a mighty fine piece of work. I’ve ’eard nothing can catch ’er, not even one of them new steamers. That could be most useful in our line of work. Most useful.’ Sims eyes it again. ‘What’ll you take for ’er, eh Bowen?’

  ‘She’s not for sale.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ sneered Sims. ‘Everything has its price and I always gets what I want, don’t I, men?’

  As he speaks, Captain Sims’ hand reaches to the scabbard at his waist. He is quick. A bone-handled knife comes out in an instant and flies straight at Captain Bowen’s face.

  The Captain must have been expecting something. He jerks to the right, and the blade just misses his left ear.

  ‘To the Devil with you, Sims, you useless blaggard!’ yells the Captain, twisting away. As he does so, he pulls his Colt pistol from behind his back. It must have been in his belt cocked and ready. A flash explodes from the gun barrel, the air instantly fills with smoke. To my surprise, it is not Sims, but the crewman on the path, the closest one, who screams and falls backwards, clutching at his chest.

  The Captain throws himself to the ground. Sims swears and looks down, about to pull his pistol from his belt. The sound of a shot from up on the cliff roars out sharp and loud, echoing up the valley. The top of Sims’ head blows away in a horrible shower of blood and hair.

  Before Sims even crumples to the deck, one of his crewmen has his pistol out and has hauled back the hammer ready to shoot the Captain. A scattered volley of shots from up on the cliff blasts out. The crew at the rail jerk backwards and fall like skittles in a hotel game, all shot dead.

  SURPRISE ATTACK