The Smuggler's Curse
Author: Norman Jorgensen
Date: 2016-09-30T14:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Juvenile Fiction; Action & Adventure; General
Description: Red Read's life takes an alarming turn when his mother sells him to an infamous smuggler plying his trade off the north-west coast of Australia in the closing days of the 19th century. From terrifying encounters with cut-throat pirates to battling the forces of nature in a tropical typhoon, from dining with head-hunting guerrillas to making meals of monkey stew, Red is in for a hair-raising adventure that may cost him his life.
Publisher: Fremantle Press
Rights: All rights reserved

This one is dedicated to The Gang, the best bunch of shipmates a pirate could have: Carmel, Jan, Jannie, Liz, Ken, John, Judi, Richard and Terry.

THE CAPTAIN

I cannot believe it. My mother has gone and sold me. Sold me — her only child! And to the most notorious, cold-hearted sea captain ever to sail the wild, west coast. What sort of a mother would do such a thing, knowing I will be carried away in a black-painted sailing ship to face untold dangers and probably death a hundred times over on treacherous seas and in exotic ports?

I never imagined something like this could happen in these modern times. After all, it’s nearly the twentieth century, and the British Empire outlawed slavery more than seventy years ago. Did Ma somehow miss that? Maybe she did. She is a busy woman.

Ma runs a hotel, all by herself, in Broome, one of the remotest towns in all of the Australian colonies, and maybe even the Empire. Ma is not big, hardly taller than me, but she can be fierce, and she’s scary when she gets angry. I guess she needs to be. More than one unruly crewman from the pearling luggers has been tossed out on his ear. And it is not just the sailors who upset her or behave badly. Faraway Broome seems to attract the scum of the earth, all searching for an easy fortune or escaping from the law.

Ma’s hotel sits on a hill overlooking Roebuck Bay. ‘The Smuggler’s Curse’ reads the sign outside, but most people just call it the Curse. From the front verandah of the Curse, you can watch Broome’s enormous tides rush in and out over the red mud flats lined with half-drowned mangrove bushes. At low tide the fleet of pearling luggers is stranded in the mud, hundreds of masts all leaning to the same side. Occasionally, a lone crewmember will be scraping a hull, or tramping through the mud carrying equipment.

To the east of us is the fly-infested desert. Its scorching winds blow over our streets most mornings, rattling the tin roofs and sending the temperatures soaring. Westward, as far as the eye can see, the endless blue sea fades into the blue sky, all the way to Africa. Sometimes, when I want to escape Ma and the pub, I take myself down to the very end of the new jetty and sit and watch the water. One time, I saw a fight between a huge shark and a crocodile. They both fought like demons but eventually just gave up and swam away, badly hurt. It was the most exciting thing I’ve ever seen.

To the north lies Asia and the exotic Far East. I have not been there. In fact, I have hardly been anywhere, not even down south to Perth. I hope to one day, but at present, I have to stay in Broome to help out Ma. And go to school, of course, endlessly, day in and day out until I feel my overloaded head is going to burst with sums and spellings.

Ma and I get on reasonably well, most of the time. That is unless I do something she doesn’t like, then relations get a bit frosty. Unfortunately, the list of things she doesn’t like is extremely long, and lately, has been growing longer. She hates me sleeping in after daybreak, staying hidden, reading when she wants me to go to the Chinese market or run other errands, swimming at Town Beach when I am supposed to be catching fish, or worst of all, not cutting enough firewood for the hotel stove. In spite of her saying I read far too much, she still buys me books, ordering them from Shepherd’s Bookshop in Fremantle.

Anyway, I might have been kidding myself to think I was an essential help to Ma, but what did I do that was so bad she would sell me? I cannot believe my life has turned to mud so quickly.

It all just happened. The air hung heavy and humid with the coming rains and Ma and Captain Bowen, skipper of the Black Dragon, were sitting on the verandah of the Curse taking the faint breeze together. I was clearing away glasses and wiping tables when I walked out onto the verandah and in on their conversation.

Captain Bowen had his purse in his hand and was counting out gold sovereigns, placing them one at a time on the table between their deck chairs.

‘That’s it then,’ I heard my mother say. ‘Ten pounds. That is a tidy sum, James. I hope he’s worth it.’

The Captain saw me and scowled. ‘You, boy,’ he announced abruptly. ‘As of tomorrow, you’re crew on the Black Dragon.’

I stood, dumbfounded. Ma had evidently decided she needed the money, and the next thing you know, quicker than a crow can pick the eyes from a dead dingo, I belonged to Captain Black Bowen no less, the most infamous and dangerous man in the colony.

I can hardly breathe just thinking about that moment. Ma is tough, but this takes the cake.

THE BLACK DRAGON

In the early morning light, I stand beside Captain Bowen on the planks of the Broome jetty clutching a brown paper parcel containing my toothbrush, a jar of tooth powder, a few clothes and my three favourite books against my chest. I still cannot believe what my mother has done to me.

I feel as sad as I ever have, and the salt air makes my eyes water a little and my nose run. I look back at Broome in the shadowy dawn, expecting to see … I don’t know what. Ma to change her mind at the last moment?

A lone dog howls outside the butcher’s shop, echoing my sorrowful plight. In the harbour, a ship’s dinghy eases its way through the pale green water. It is coming to take me away, perhaps forever. Possibly to my agonising death. Overhead, seagulls cry mournfully, seeming to agree with the miserable dog.

Far out, near where the sea changes from pale green to deep blue, the sleek shape of the Black Dragon, Captain Bowen’s rake-masted schooner, waits. For an instant, she looks more like an evil ghost ship than a fully-armed, fighting gaff-rigger. Worryingly, she seems like she has sailed right out of Hell and is headed straight back there, taking me along for the ride.

‘She’s a looker,’ says Mr Cooper, the tobacconist, sitting patiently on an empty ammunition box, fishing. At least, I hope the ammunition box is empty, with him dropping hot ash from his pipe as he is. He is in for a great big surprise if it is full of cartridges. I step back a little, just to be sure. ‘I hear she goes like a greased cat out of Hell,’ he continues.

‘Yes indeed,’ agrees the Captain. ‘But she’s a witch to handle close to the wind. She needs two men on the wheel in a twenty-knot breeze. Still, in full sail, there’s not another vessel on the seas that can catch her. Not a one. Leaves those stinking steamers in her wake. And she’ll turn on a sixpence. Saved our bacon a few times that has, being able to spin like a top.’

The Captain looks up at the dinghy approaching. ‘Ahoy! Put your backs into it, you miserable scabs,’ he calls across the water to the dinghy’s crew. ‘The tide’s on its ebb and if we miss it, so help me, I’ll …’ He leaves the threat unsaid, but the four men pulling on the oars lift their stroke rate considerably.

The coxswain lets go the tiller and tosses up a rope to the jetty for the Captain to catch.

‘Get aboard, boy,’ orders the Captain. ‘Quick as you go.’ He stands looking at the horizon for a few moments and feeling the wind. ‘And don’t slip. Fall in and the sharks can have you. With my compliments.’

I look back at him. Does he really mean it? I decide not to chance it, and make my way quickly down the slimy, algae-encrusted ladder, hanging on tight until a crew member grabs my arm and jerks me over the gap and into the dinghy. I half fall in and skin my knee. I want to cry out at the sudden pain, but manage to stop myself. Just. The Captain drops in effortlessly, and the crew push off and head out towards the schooner, the oars dipping quietly in and out of the smooth water.

I look back in case Ma has come down to see me off, but the jetty remains bare. All I can see is poor Mr Cooper without any fish. Far off, the dog howls again and, overhead, the squawk of the seagulls fades as we draw further from the land.

‘What are you looking so glum about, boy?’ growls Captain Bowen. ‘You should be glad to get away from Broome for a while, flea-bitten excuse for a shanty town that it is. I certainly am. Give me the open seas and a fresh breeze on my face any day. The pearling captains can have the stink, flies and heat, and each other. We’ll be back in a month or so. It’s not like you’ve joined the Royal Navy, away for years at a time. Why we ever put up with that damn nonsense is beyond me. This will be a grand adventure. Make a man of you,’ he adds, implying I am certainly not one now. ‘You might even earn a pound or two.’

I cheer up a little. At least Ma has not sold me as an unpaid skivvy then, but as a real paid worker. A bit like an apprentice boy, maybe. I had just assumed I would be stuck at sea for good, with Ma not knowing if I were alive or dead and eaten by cannibals in far off Tahiti. I have read lots of stories about missionaries being boiled up and feasted upon by hungry islanders. What are the chances I will end up as someone’s lunch?

ON BOARD

We sit in silence with just the low grunt of the men and the quiet splash of the oars. After a few minutes, the Captain speaks again. ‘Why did your mother call you Red, boy? What sort of name is that?’

‘They call you Black, sir,’ I answer without thinking.

The Captain fixes me with a steely gaze that freezes my blood. ‘I earned my name, Black Bowen, the hard way.’ One of the sailors chuckles quietly, and several others nod in agreement.

The Captain doesn’t speak to me again. He stares broodingily ahead. I have noticed when he’s visited the Curse that he often seems plagued by dark, dismal contemplations as if demons possessed his soul. And maybe they do. But what do I care if he has dark thoughts. Maybe if he did not have such a guilty conscience he might have happier ones.

The dark-painted hull of the Black Dragon eventually looms above us. From the bow of the dinghy, I have to leap to the ship’s boarding ladder that hangs down the side of the midsection. This far out into Roebuck Bay, the wind has started to pick up and the dinghy tosses about a little. With one slippery misstep, I will be in the drink. Luckily, I manage to catch hold of the thick wet rope and then haul myself up the wooden rungs onto the deck without falling in and getting eaten.

I look around. The Black Dragon is almost ready to sail, the deck bustling with activity. There are about a dozen men in the crew, all busy at their tasks. Up near the bow, a Malay boy squats on the deck. He is dribbling thick, sticky tar from a big black pot onto the decking, filling the spaces between the planks. He seems to have more tar on himself than on the timber. He glances up at me for a moment and then continues with what appears to be an endless and thankless task. He looks as miserable as sin, but then it looks to be a terrible job. I suspect, though, that is not the worst job on the ship. I’m sure someone will be saving that especially for the new ship’s boy.

A shadow falls across me. A giant of a man as tall as a door glares down, his eyes almost hidden beneath a black peaked cap. Brass buttons on his open coat gleam in the early light.

‘Well, what do we have here? Some fresh meat for my rope, from the look of him. Shifty, weedy looking character if ever I’ve seen one. Very shifty. And skinny. By God, he’s scrawny. I’ve seen more meat on a rock.’

I feel myself shrink even smaller. At once, I take off my hat and hold it against my chest. ‘I’m Red Read, sir. I’m … I’m … to be the new ship’s boy,’ I stammer, unsettled by the big man looming over me. His eyes are small, and half-closed as if the sun shines too bright, and his skin, brown and weather-beaten like most sailors, looks like leather cut from a horse’s saddlebag.

‘Ship’s boy, eh?’ He looks across at another crewman. ‘Well then, Mr Cord, we do need a new buoy. Tie a rope around his neck and fling him overboard. We’ll see if he floats — just like that buoy over there.’ He points to the half-sunk wine barrel that the ship is moored to.

I feel my face turning red, and I wonder if he is serious.

‘Very amusing, Bosun Stevenson,’ smiles the Captain. ‘But he’s Mary Read’s boy. Drown him, and you’ll be feeling the full weight of her wrath before the day’s out. You’d be a braver man than me. You can put him to work instead. Not that he looks like he’s ever done a stroke of real labour in his life.’

The Bosun shrugs. ‘No, not a muscle to be seen, or a callous I’ll be betting. Let me see your hands, Master …’ he pauses, trying to remember my name.

‘Red, sir.’

‘Green, more like. As green as grass,’ I hear someone behind me snicker.

My day has started badly and is getting worse by the minute. I wish the deck would just open up and swallow me. Working after school at the pub, I am used to being teased by the customers, but this is different. Everything about the boat is alien. The crew are not complete strangers as I have seen most of them in town, but I do not really know them, and none of them seem to want to know me. I just want to go home.

I nervously hold my palms out for inspection.

Bosun Stevenson nods, apparently unimpressed, then reaches forward, grabs my upper arm, and squeezes it tight, feeling my muscle. Again, he shakes his head in disapproval. ‘On a frigate in the old days, we would have made fish food of you, with weedy arms like that. On a pirate ship, they would have sold you to grave robbers for the mortuary doctors to experiment on. How about we do that? Make a profit,’ he laughs.

I look down at the deck, fighting off a vision of me being sliced open by a mad, sadistic doctor.

‘It’s time, Bosun,’ says the Captain looking out at the water. ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘My faithful friend, Mr Shakespeare. But now, take us to sea, Bosun.’

I know about William Shakespeare. I like history at school. He was around when Queen Elizabeth was on the throne years ago, so he can’t be the Captain’s friend, unless the Captain is three hundred years old, and I don’t think he is quite that.

‘Let’s see how strong you really are, boy,’ says the Bosun. ‘Up the ratlines with you.’

I have no idea what he’s talking about and look blankly back at him.

The Bosun rolls his eyes and sighs heavily. ‘A bleeding landlubber. The Lord preserve us. I should have known. Right then, listen carefully, boy. These,’ he says, pointing at the thick ropes attached to the sails, ‘are called sheets. The sheets control the sails. This big one in the middle is the foresail. Those little triangular ones at the bow, the front of the boat, are the jibs, and that big one at the rear is the mainsail.’ The mainsail flaps energetically, cracking like a pistol shot. The wind is picking up and my head is reeling.

‘Facing the front of the boat, starboard is to your right, and port is to your left because if you’re lucky, there’s always a little port left in the bottle. The ratlines are what we tars call the rope steps there by the railing, for landlubbers like you. Now enough. To the top of the mast with you, boy. The crow’s nest, as close to heaven as you can get, then the shortest way down.’ He points to a rope stay running at an angle from the top of the mast back down to the deck.

I don’t fancy that one little bit, but what am I to do? I look up. The crow’s nest seems to reach the clouds. Nervously, I climb onto the side rail and then scramble up the ratlines hand over hand towards the platform. Each step takes me steadily higher, and I am soon sweating with effort and nerves. As I draw close to the top, I can hear Bosun Stevenson below me shouting orders through a speaking trumpet.

As I reach halfway up the mast, the ship suddenly keels over at a sharp angle to starboard as the inner jib sail is hauled in and catches the wind. The canvas stretches tight and powerful. Without warning, the deck is no longer beneath me. I hang precariously over the dark water and white waves from the ship’s bow. The wake grows smoother as the ship picks up speed. Within a few minutes, the wind increases even more, and because the mast is at such a steep angle, I have trouble holding on. I grip the rope even tighter.

Eventually, the Bosun guides the ship out beyond the protected waters of Roebuck Bay and alters course slightly, and the Black Dragon’s masts come more upright. For just a few seconds, I feel relief. But then the ship begins ploughing headlong into the waves with the mainmast swaying and bucking wildly in time to the water crashing over the bow. My arms are tired from hanging on so tightly, but now, at least, the deck is below me, and not an expanse of shark-infested water. Though, thinking about it, that is probably worse. Terrified, I let go with my left hand and reach out for the rope I am supposed to ride down to the deck. Clutching it as tightly as I possibly can, I quickly let go with my other hand and grab at the stay, but then I’m dangling in the air, with nowhere to put my feet. I now have no choice. I try twisting my foot around the tight rope, but the angle is too steep. I will have to climb down hand over hand, my aching arms carrying my whole weight. If I slide down, the rough hemp will rip the skin from my palms, and I’ll probably drop all the way to the deck anyway. As I hang there, like an over-ripe mango about to fall from a branch, I wonder if my seafaring career is going to be the shortest in history.

My survival instincts take over. I dare not look down, in fact, I dare not even open my eyes, but somehow I manage to edge my way downwards, hand over hand, my arms and shoulders screaming in pain. My feet finally hit the deck with a thud and I land with a painful bump. I lie on my back, spread-eagled, my heart thumping in my chest and my mouth dry with fear.

I did not have much to eat this morning, but the climb has scared me so much that every morsel comes rushing up from the depths of my stomach with a sudden gush. I turn on my side and vomit up a putrid puddle onto the deck. I feel as miserable and pathetic as can be.

‘He’ll do Captain, at a pinch, God willing,’ laughs Bosun Stevenson. ‘As soon as he learns to stand on his own two feet. Or keep his breakfast down. I’ll toughen him up, so help me — or so help him more likely.’

Several sailors start laughing, which makes it worse. The only sensible thought I have is that at least I am not splattered all over the deck like so many pounds of strawberry jam.

BELOW DECKS

After I’ve cleaned up my own mess, the Bosun sends me below decks with the tar-smeared boy. His name is Teuku Nyak King. It is a traditional Sumatran name, he says, but everyone on board just calls him Teuku, or sometimes Your Majesty, as a bit of a joke.

A smell just like that of the Curse fills my nose and makes me long for home — must, sweat, stale ale and damp timber. The space is the width of the boat, running about half the length and narrow near the bow. Light from a grating in the deck above filters in, casting a checkerboard pattern on the floor at the far end. Canvas hammocks fill the area on each side and a long table, stained and well-worn, runs down the centre. Against the sides of the cabin, wooden chests of all different sizes take up the confined space.

‘You can have Markham’s hammock — that one,’ says Teuku. ‘He don’t need his hammock, no more.’ His voice sounds slow and sad.

‘Why? Why won’t he need his hammock? Where’s he going to sleep?’ I ask.

‘He was ship’s boy before you, but the Dutch got him last time the Captain was on Sumatra. Got three of them. All good’uns too. We won’t be seeing them again for a good few years, I think. Even if they do keep their heads attached to their necks. Those Dutchy colonials, they invaded, and now they believe they own Sumatra. They are a nasty lot. Shoot you as quick as look at you. Killed hundreds of us on Sumatra they have. Thousands. Men, women, children. They are butchers. And they call us savages.’

‘Oh,’ I reply rather pathetically, not knowing at all how to respond. ‘Is that where you are from, then?’

‘Not any more,’ he answers. ‘I’m from here now. This boat. I have nowhere else. They killed all my family, burned down our village. They killed everyone. In reprisal, they say. Captain Bowen found me on the beach half-dead.’ He lifts his shirt to show me a white scar, vivid against his dark skin, running vertically down his chest and across his stomach. Another even uglier scar cuts across his forearm.

I look at him, my eyes widening in shock. I don’t know what to say. What can you say?

‘Sam Chi, the cook, he stitched me up.’

‘Oh,’ I reply, again, stupidly. ‘Is there no one left at all? You’ve got nobody?’

‘Just Captain Bowen.’

‘Where do you think we’re headed?’ I ask, trying to change the subject.

‘North,’ he says. ‘It nearly always is north. The Captain hasn’t told us just where yet. Maybe Aceh again to finish off his business. We had to get out of there in a hurry last time.’

Aceh. There has been lots of talk at the Curse about Aceh, and reports in The West Australian newspaper of all sorts of death, destruction and atrocities in those parts.

‘The Dutch bombarded the main town of Banda Aceh,’ continued Teuku. ‘They took over. Slaughtered a lot of people. The Sultan fled into the hills, formed the resistance and is fighting to win back our land. But the Dutch have sent thousands of soldiers from Holland to enslave everyone. They want Sumatra and are going to any lengths to keep it.’

‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Why do they want Sumatra so much?”

‘They are greedy,’ he replies fiercely. ‘They want the spices we grow. They want the pepper and chilli and tobacco. Especially the tobacco. And they’ll kill everyone to get them.’

I peer into the gloom of the crew’s quarters. I am becoming increasingly worried about my future. Whatever was my mother thinking?

‘Get some sleep,’ Teuku says. ‘You’ll be on the last dogwatch. Eight bells. We all do watch. Even the Captain. But fall asleep on watch, and it’s over the side for you. No discussing it, no second chances. Splash. Food for the fishes. Be warned, ship’s boy, Captain Bowen, he’s fair, but he’s tough. He don’t stand no nonsense when we’re at sea. Break his rules and he’ll break you. Into little pieces.’ Teuku runs his finger across his throat like a dagger and winks at me. I guess he is joking about that part at least. I certainly hope so.

‘Are there headhunters in Aceh? Same as in Borneo?’ I ask. I have read all about savage headhunters in an old copy of the Illustrated London News a pearling master left in the Saloon Bar. They shoot you with poisoned blowpipes then they cut your head off as a souvenir.

‘The headhunters of Aceh are even more fierce than on Borneo. I’d watch myself if I were you. Them headhunters, you’re just their type.’ He laughs lightly at my discomfort. ‘But the real savages are the Dutch soldiers. For every man they lose they burn down a village and kill everyone they find. Everyone. Then they leave their bodies to rot in the sun, as a warning.’

Without another word, Teuku turns and leaves, bounding up the steps to the deck.

Had my mother any idea when she sold me that those shiny golden coins meant my probable death? A deep sense of unease settles on me. I have never been away from home before, and now I am expected to look after myself. I somehow know no one is going to help me out. And I have to share a cabin with a bunch of smelly men who all hate me and couldn’t care if I died in my sleep. They’d just throw my body overboard and get in on with it.

How can my life have changed so much in such a short time? Only last week my biggest worry was keeping out of Ma’s way, or wondering if Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn were was about to be killed by Injun Joe in Chapter Twenty-eight. Now though, my outlook is decidedly bleak, to say the least. And what’s worse, we could be heading into the middle of the Aceh Independence War between the Sumatrans and the Dutch.

I sit on the edge of Markham’s hammock and swing my legs in, and very nearly upend the hammock and topple straight out again. The hammock swings wildly from side to side while I clutch on tightly. Luckily, Teuku is not there to see me.

I close my eyes, but it is no use. I’ve never been able to sleep in the middle of the afternoon at the best of times, let alone here, in a hammock, with everything that’s happened. I open them again to find someone standing over me.

‘Red, it’s me. I made a brew. Youse want one?’

I almost cry in relief. Mr Smith is easy to recognise, with the right side of his face scarred and blackened from an old misfired musket wound. He stands shorter than most of the crew, but he has the look of a house brick, square and solid. His skin is like old leather and his arms are strong and scarred. He has several tattoos, including a picture of a woman wearing no clothes across his chest. I know Mr Smith, but I don’t know much about his life. He does not seem to have a family, at least not in Broome. But then Broome is often where men go to get away from their families.

He is a regular at the Curse and a decent bloke. The pleasure of seeing a friendly face after all the scowls and teasing feels good.

He smiles at my efforts struggling to get out of the hammock. ‘I’m the gunner on this here scow,’ he says, handing me a battered enamel mug.

I take a sip of the hot liquid and look at him gratefully. ‘I don’t fit in here, Mr Smith. On the Black Dragon. Not at all. Not one bit. The Captain hates me, and the men think I’m a raw fool. They look at me like something the cat dragged in. Worse, like something the cat did.’

‘Youse sticks with me, boy, and I’ll watch ya back,’ he says. ‘I started as ship’s boy, back well a’fore you was born. On the Pandora, it were, a four-masted square-rigger out of Southampton, in England, when I was about your age, maybe a bit younger. Back before those damn smelly steam ships clogged up all the ’arbours. I know the ropes right enough. I’m still alive, and I’ll stay that way. I’ll try and learn ya’ right.’

‘There’s a lot to learn.’

‘Don’t you worry none. The crew’ll do alright by youse too, once they get to know youse. Youse’ll see. They’re not a bad lot. Not as ’ard as they pretend. We all ’ave to get along. The Cap’n demands it, ’e do. ’e don’t hold with malingerers and lead swingers and sea lawyers. And ’e don’t tolerate no bullies. ’e reckons ’e’s the only one allowed to bully. ’e keeps on about us being a few, a ’appy few, we band of brothers — for whoever sheds ’is blood with me shall be my brother.’

I am not entirely sure what he means, but I nod as if I do. I have heard the expression before, somewhere, but I do not want to share any blood at all, even if it does make me a brother. There were many times in the past when I wanted a brother, but not enough to give up any of my precious blood.

‘What about Markham? Teuku just told me about him and the others.’

‘That was just bad luck,’ Mr Smith replies. ‘They walked into a bar carryin’ their guns, not knowin’ it was full of Dutch marines off duty, including a officer. The Dutch reckoned they was mercenaries fightin’ with the rebels. Maybe spies. Nothin’ we could do for ’em, though the Cap’n, he tried, ’e did. Nearly got ’isself topped ’e did, tryin’.’ Mr Smith shrugs, ending the story, leaving me curious. He finishes his tea and swings into his hammock, effortlessly. It creaks once, and he seems to fall asleep instantly.

Over the next hour, half-a-dozen more men make their way noisily down the steps and eventually to the hammocks. They tease and poke fun at each other, and then spit, curse, burp and fart loudly for good measure. They completely ignore me.

In spite of Mr Smith’s promise to look after me, I lie awake, still nervous, thinking about being shot or having my head chopped off, and wondering how likely it is to actually happen. With every passing minute, we draw further and further away from home and towards an unknown and probably deadly shore. And with every second that goes by I am feeling queasier and queasier. I try taking deep breaths, but the seasickness will not go away. In fact, it gets worse. Any minute I’m going to chuck up again, bucket loads. It was embarrassing enough up on deck but in the cabin, it will be unforgivable and I definitely will be tossed overboard.

CUSTOMS

I feel absolutely dreadful, as bad as I ever have. Below decks is hot and uncomfortable and surprisingly noisy. The ship’s timbers creak, men who will be on the late watch snore, splutter and fart, and several cry out alarmingly in their sleep. I have never slept in a hammock before, and the constant swaying makes me feel even sicker. I decide to go back up to the deck for some fresh air.

On deck, I lean against the port rail and feel the clean wind against my cheeks. I have just brought up my fill of vomit over the side, enough to feed a million fishes, when a loud shout comes from the watch up at the masthead.

‘Ship astern! Nor’-easterly course. Dead astern.’

‘You, boy. Fetch the Captain. Move yourself!’ yells the Bosun.

‘What? Where?’ I stammer in confusion, spitting out the last of the vile taste from my mouth.

Bosun Stevenson lifts his massive arm and points to six stairs leading down to the stern cabin. ‘There, for God’s sake! Now!’

‘Begging your pardon, Captain, sir,’ I say when he swings open his cabin door. I peer past him. His walnut-lined cabin is enormous, taking up all the rear of the deck. A long wall of windows lines the stern and, at the centre, a dining table big enough for at least a dozen men has been set for two. Against one wall, a polished writing desk is covered in rolled maps, papers and journals, and, on the opposite wall, a wooden bunk with the bedclothes still waiting to be made up.

‘Spit it out, boy!’

‘A ship, sir, astern of us, sir.’

The Captain does not wait. Mounting the steps two at a time, he hurries onto the deck and reaches for his telescope, and quickly focuses it.

Bosun Stevenson already has his glass trained on the unknown ship to our stern.

‘What do you think?’ asks the Captain. ‘She’s a steam cutter sure enough. Look at that.’ Thick black smoke spews from its funnel. ‘Customs?’

‘Could be a Navy dispatch cutter,’ says the Bosun, sounding vaguely hopeful.

‘About as much chance of that as my Aunt Bessie’s three-legged dog winning the Melbourne Cup, I’ll wager,’ continues the Captain. ‘Look at the state she’s in. Only the poxy Customs would let a vessel go to rack and ruin like that.’ He shakes his head slightly in disgust. ‘What a disgrace. Sailors of the Queen’s Navy were taught better. Isn’t that so, Bosun?’

‘Indeed, we were, Captain,’ agrees Bosun Stevenson. ‘Pride in our ship, pride in ourselves. Ship shape and Bristol fashion. Do you want me to outrun the fools? That useless, stinking steamer will have a top speed of only seven or eight knots, at most. Just say the word, and we can leave them eating our wake.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you can Bosun. And why not, eh? Let’s show them a clean pair of heels. We don’t need that oily stink anywhere near us, or the interfering snoops that they are, even though we’ve nothing to hide at the moment. But perhaps not in a week or so, eh, men?’

The vague, far-off sound of a speaking trumpet on the cutter carries over the space between the two ships but is drowned out by distance and the thud and smack of the acres of canvas and the noise of the wind.

‘They’re raising signal flags, Captain,’ says the Bosun.

The Captain sees me waiting by the steps that lead down to his cabin. ‘Boy!’ he shouts. ‘Fetch my signal book. It’s the black one on my desk. Marked Signal Book,’ he adds, as if I’m an idiot.

As I go below, Bosun Stevenson bellows, ‘Ease out the jib! Adjust the main boom. Ease it. Ease it! Not too much. Look to that angle.’

The ship’s bow moves a few degrees to starboard, the motion gently changes, and the speed noticeably increases.

The Bosun’s commands are obeyed almost instantly. The crew doesn’t question his calls. He is tall and dignified and carries a Bible. I find it incongruous that he is part of this crew, as the rest of the band seem little better than Godless modern day pirates.

I go to hand the Captain the signal book.

‘No, you do it, boy. What do their signal flags read?’ he asks. It is obvious he already knows.

I fumble through the pages and check each coloured flag flying above the distant cutter against the pictures in the book. ‘Heave - to - and - prepare - to - be - boarded.’

‘That’s going to happen,’ laughs Mr Cord cynically. ‘The damn fools obviously don’t know our Captain.’

Another string of flags is raised on the cutter.

‘Heave - to - or - we - will - fire,’ I continue. I look up in surprise. Fire? Really?

‘Okay, boy, you can get out from under my feet now. Go and stand against the stern rail,’ orders the Captain.

‘If they fire, you’ll be the first one hit standing there at the stern. That’ll lighten the ship’s load by a few pounds,’ laughs Mr Cord.

I don’t think that is amusing at all, but a few minutes later, a puff of smoke erupts from the single gun on the cutter’s foredeck. Immediately, there is an explosion and large splash to the left of the stern, not far from me, as the cannon shell hits. I duck instinctively. A massive column of water sprays over me. A distant boom is carried away by the wind. Luckily, no thanks to Mr Cord’s prediction, I am not hit, but I can feel my heart starting to thump, just like it did earlier in the day when I was hanging from the mast.

‘Well, I wasn’t expecting that,’ declares the Bosun, surprised. ‘That was close.’

‘They’re a rum lot. Normally couldn’t hit a cow’s bum with a banjo,’ says the Captain, not looking at all bothered we are under fire. Real actual gunfire!

‘Retired relics from the Navy, who’ve been too long baking their brains in the sun, I’d say,’ mutters Mr Cord. ‘Can’t usually see straight, let alone shoot straight.’

‘Retired relics? What, like most of us?’ asks the Bosun, smiling slightly.

Another boom sounds as a second shot fires. This falls astern of us as well but even closer. I duck again in alarm, unable to help myself. What if a shell does hit the deck? It will explode, and we’ll all be blown to bits and killed.

The Captain laughs as if he hasn’t a care in the world. ‘I’m reminded of the famous last words of Union General Sedgewick in the war with the Confederates, who said, why do I need to get down, they couldn’t hit an elephant at this dist… ahhh!’

Several of the crew standing close to him laugh heartily.

‘Captain?’ I ask, almost pleading, imagining their third shot landing right where I stand.

Seconds later, it almost does, the splash of the shot completely drenching me. It lands so close it barely misses the hull.

STARS AND STRIPES

‘Ahhh!’ I yell loudly in surprise.

‘I think the Customs might have a new gunner,’ the Bosun declares. ‘One with a keen eye. That was far too close for comfort.’

‘It looks like you may be right, Bosun. That unlucky Union general gives me an idea.’ The Captain glances about and sees me cringing at the stern rail shaking like a leaf. ‘Boy,’ he calls. ‘Do you know what the flag of the United States looks like?’

I nod, not sure my voice will still work after the shock.

‘You’ll find an American flag in the Bosun’s locker over there. Run it up the halyard on the backstay, toot sweet.’

‘Captain?’ asks the Bosun.

‘We are on the high seas this far out,’ he replies. ‘Her Majesty’s Customs can’t go firing on United States’ ships. Wars have been started by less.’

‘But we’re not an American ship,’ he declares.

‘You and I know that, Bosun, but that Customs’ captain can’t be sure. Imagine the diplomatic row if we were American and he hit us,’ says the Captain.

With shaking fingers, I quickly haul the fluttering flag as high as it will go.

‘Nothing more to worry about, boy. We’ll be out of range before they decide it is a ruse and can reload. And besides, they are fortunate we don’t fire back. Isn’t that so Mr Smith?’

‘Aye, right enough Cap’n,’ replies Mr Smith. ‘I’s sorely tempted to lob a shell down that stinkin’ chimley of theirs.’

‘You want to smite them most severely in revenge?’ says the Bosun, smiling only slightly.

‘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 fish 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 unruffled 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.

‘Well done, Mr Cord,’ says the Captain, just loud enough for him to hear. ‘Remind me to call on your excellent services again.’

Mr Cord smiles proudly in gratitude at the Captain’s comment and touches his fingers to his forehead, almost in a salute.

‘None of that Navy malarkey,’ snaps Mr Smith.

‘I wasn’t saluting,’ protests Mr Cord. ‘I’ve forgotten how. I was just waving away a bug.’

I wonder when we get back to Broome if Mr Cord will tell his son Albert what he has done, stabbing a robber to death in the street?

‘Now, down there with him, men,’ says the Captain. ‘If you would be so kind.’ He points to a set of stairs at the side of the church that lead down into what is probably the crypt. The two men pick up the dead man and lift him over the metal railing. They throw him down the stairs and into the darkness with no more thought than if they were unloading a sack of potatoes. I feel a bit sick.

The Chinese drinking house smells different to the Smuggler’s Curse, but I can hear the sound of woks sizzling, pans banging and cooks shouting wildly at each other from the kitchen, just like China Town back in Broome.

The Captain and I take a seat outside at a table to the right of the front door. Overhead, a sign painted with a green stylised dragon squeaks in time to the cool breeze blowing up from the harbour. At a bench nearby, a trencher piled high with dead insects smells a bit like our cesspit at home, and looks no better.

‘How can anyone like scorpions and seahorses and crickets in preference to good Kimberley roast beef?’ I ask the Captain.

‘You get used to it, boy. That’s garlic they smother everything with. And fish sauce. And ginger. Covers all manner of sins. Wait until you’ve tried it before you criticise. Some of the best food I’ve ever eaten.’

It is going to be a very long wait, I decide, before I eat any of that ghastly looking stuff. A very long wait indeed.

Mr Smith stands half-hidden in the shadow of a doorway directly opposite, and Mr Cord behind a wagon laden high with bags of rice just along the street. If any trouble breaks out, they can both be with us in a few strides.

Chang Pao and another younger man, who looks enough like him to be his son, arrive in a rickshaw hauled along by a fit looking puller. I notice them pause and glance down at the fresh blood on the ground as the rickshaw passes the church.

Chang Pao is well dressed in a European-style white suit like a pearling master, but with riding boots. Grey hair shows from under his Panama hat. He has the contented look of a gentleman who has too much food and wine and too little to do. His son, taller and in his prime, has the swagger of a powerful, wealthy man, but he lets his father lead the way into the square.

The Captain takes his pistol from his belt as they walk towards us and passes it under the table to me. ‘Boy,’ he says. ‘I don’t trust this old crook. Knowing him, he’s probably got a whole regiment of the Singapore constabulary waiting around that corner.’ He points to a rice shop at the other end of the square where hundreds of bags are lined up on shelves. ‘Position yourself over there and if you see anything, fire the gun and we’ll be out of here quicker than Jack Robinson.’

I nod, hoping the police are not close by.

‘And boy,’ he continues. ‘If all is safe, wait at the corner but keep a close eye back here at young Chang Pao. I’ve heard he’s as slippery as his father and twice as crooked. One foul move from him and you can give him a new red waistcoat and new buttonhole. You might not kill him from that distance, but it’ll give him a great big surprise, and that is most of the battle. Just remember what Mr Smith taught you.’

‘One foul move it is then.’ I take the gun, the same heavy Colt I’d been practicing with over the ship’s rail. I hide it in my shirt and head into the street, feeling like a character in one of my books, trying not to be noticed by the crowd of noisy men all around us.

As I reach the rice merchant’s doorway and look back, I wonder if I will be able to shoot young Chang Pao in cold blood. More importantly, how will I know what is a foul move or him merely reaching for his cigarette case? I don’t like my chances of getting it right.

A few minutes later, the Captain holds his hand up indicating all is fine, and I relax a little, though not too much. After all, I stand on a street corner in dangerous Singapore, and any moment, a soldier or a constable might come along and start asking me questions I can’t answer.

From where I stand, I cannot hear their conversation, but there does not seem to be any tension or trouble between them. In fact, I can see them laughing and enjoying a huge joke.

Eventually, after handshakes all round, Chang Pao and his son leave, returning the same way they arrived by the church road.

The Captain waves me back. ‘Sit,’ he commands.

‘Did you do a deal, Captain?’ I ask after we sit in silence for a few moments as Mr Smith and Mr Cord make their way towards us.

‘Indeed, boy, a good deal, if they deliver what they promise.’

I hand back his pistol.

‘Keep it, boy, at least until we get back to the ship,’ he says. ‘You never can tell what trouble lurks in these dark alleyways.’

I look about, nervous again. The Captain could be right, and it is a long, dark walk back to the harbour and the safety of the Dragon. And we have killed a man in the street. I wonder if he has friends who will want revenge. I hope no one has discovered his body yet.

Luckily, the lurking trouble stays away a little while longer.

THE CARGO

At the mainmast, Bosun Stevenson lights a glass-sided lantern and hauls it up high with a light line. He quickly lowers it and then raises it again several times, evidently sending a signal.

‘There it is!’ calls the Bosun.

Way off in the distance, on a hill to the left of the lights of the Singapore settlement, across on the Malayan mainland, a single light suddenly flashes. It comes back four more times.

‘What’s he like, Captain, this new bloke?’ asks Bosun Stevenson.

‘I haven’t met him. He’s one of Chang Pao’s captains — a pirate,’ laughs the Captain. ‘What more do I need to say? But we’ve been promised a good price.’

‘You trust him?’

‘Who, Chang Po?’ asks the Captain. ‘About as much as I’d trust Old Nick himself. Chang Pao was a pirate like no other, with a whole fleet of ships, though he reckons he’s retired. Retired? Ha! He sits up in that big house of his sponsoring all kinds of thieves and felons and gentlemen of the sea. He makes far more money from his kickbacks and commissions than he ever did riding the high seas himself.’

‘You, boy,’ commands the Captain, seeing me listening. ‘You can handle an oar tonight. We’ll get you toughened up even if we have to kill you doing so, eh men?’

The men laugh, happy at the thought of me getting killed, I suspect. I nod slowly, embarrassed and unsure. Is this how the new ship’s boy is to meet his fate? Ambushed on a deserted Malayan beach by a regiment of government troops or skinned alive and sold for a satchel?

We row quietly through the darkness to the shore, the slap and groan of the oars surprisingly loud on a calm night. The Captain must have selected this particular hour for the delivery based on the moon, for it appears as a mere slither of a fingernail, making the darkness even deeper. I can hardly see the man in front of me, but the others have obviously done this many times before and it does not seem to worry them overmuch.

The tide is out and the beach sand hard and wide. A tiny amount of moonlight reflects off its wet surface, making it a little easier to see when we reach the shore and pull the boats clear, the bows resting on the sand.

Back from the water’s edge, at least six men stand in a group beside a small trading junk, its flat bottom resting on the sand. The open hold is loaded high with small kegs.

I look quizzically at Mr Smith and he whispers in reply, ‘They’re firkins of brandy, Red.’

Bosun Stevenson and the junk’s master exchange a few halting words, and then the Bosun hands over a calico bag, full of coins by the sound of it. The junk’s master jerks it a few times as if mentally weighing it. ‘You don’t need to count it,’ the Bosun says firmly. ‘It’s gold. Everyone knows Captain Bowen’s word is solid.’

The junk’s master shrugs and spits out a wad of phlegm.

‘Set to, men. We don’t have all night,’ orders the Bosun. ‘God’s tide waits for no man, so get a move on you laggards.’

The pirate crew stand idly by while we transfer the firkins to our boats, carrying them one at a time. The pirates seem nervous and anxious to be away from the beach, and certainly away from us. They watch intently at every firkin being manhandled. When a barrel is dropped on the sand, several of them gasp. I wonder what they are so nervous about, other than getting caught by the government.

One man can just lift a firkin, but it is heavy going and awkward, and for me – impossible. We soon pair up and carry one between two until the tide starts to turn. Then it is back to one per man again and in a real hurry. The men are puffing and panting in the humid night air as the shallows lap insistently at their ankles and grow deeper by the minute.

It is well past midnight by the time we haul the last of the firkins on to the deck of the Dragon using a block and tackle tied to the boom and a net swung out over the side as a makeshift hoist. Working without lanterns makes it a difficult job, especially when the kegs have to be stowed below. I soon discover the Dragon has a secret compartment beneath the Captain’s cabin that can be reached only by removing wall panelling.

‘A tidy night’s work, men,’ announces the Captain at first light. Most of the men are on deck, coming or going as the crew change over for the morning watch. The Captain looks around at the faces and nods or smiles at each one. ‘I saved back one of the kegs. I think we earned a nip or two, this beautiful morning.’

And indeed, it is a very fine morning. By this time, we are well offshore, though Singapore Island still appears as a bluish smudge on the horizon.

The men do not cheer, as I might have expected, but a happy sounding murmur passes among them.

‘Sam Chi, do you think you can rustle up a tap?’

Sam Chi grins. He holds the tap and wooden mallet in his hand ready. He bangs the tap in the bunghole, turns it and fills up a tankard.

Bosun Stevenson is first in line at the keg. He takes a long, deep swig from the tankard, but almost instantly sprays the whole mouthful across the deck. ‘By the Devil’s horns, it’s seawater! The pox-ridden rogues have cheated us!’

CROSSED

The Captain’s eyes narrow and flash in anger, and his shoulders square up. ‘Sam Chi, get below and see if the other kegs are the same. So help me …’ He pauses for a moment and scans the horizon. ‘So help them, more like.’

Sam Chi returns a short while later, puffed and red in the face. ‘I checked six, Captain. All water.’

A long silence follows, broken only by the sounds of the wind and the creak of the ship. After what seems like an age, the Captain speaks. ‘Boy?’ he says, his voice cold.

‘Sir?’

‘You remember you asked me about my name? Why folk call me Black Bowen? Well, you are about to find out why. If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?’ He looks to the shore. ‘My oath, we shall revenge.’

I just nod, not knowing what I should say.

‘You saw their boat, Bosun Stevenson?’ the Captain continues.

‘Aye, Captain, the usual forty-foot trading junk. Two masts, high stern battened sails, red, maybe. It was hard to see in the dark. Six crew, including that accursed dog of a master.’

‘Accursed dog? You can say that again. I curse him now, and I’ll curse him again all the way to seven kinds of Hell as I flay the skin from his miserable hide. He’ll be begging for mercy, and it won’t be coming. No one cheats Black Bowen and lives to brag about it. No one cheats the crew of the Black Dragon. Isn’t that right, men?’

This time the crew all cheer.

‘It’s not Chang Pao that’s cheated us then?’ asks Bosun Stevenson.

‘No, probably not. But I’ll be having a quiet word with him next time, that’s for sure. He can learn the meaning of the words compensation, reimbursement, and reparation all at once. Or he can learn the words bloody revenge. He knows I’m a good customer and he will want to keep dealing with me, long term. No, this will be his captain trying to double his money. He runs off with the brandy and the gold as well. A good bargain if you can get away with it. But you need the courage to face both me and Chang Pao if you don’t. In the meantime, we’ll try and get our gold back. And sort out those barefaced thieves.’

‘He’ll be a brave man then, that junk captain,’ says one of the crew.

‘Bloody idiot if you ask me,’ says another. ‘He’ll be seeing his own gizzards spread all over, before too long. Of that, I’m certain.’

‘Boy, to the masthead,’ barks the Bosun. ‘Get closer to God. Younger eyes can see further. You as well, Teuku. Let me know the second you spot the scurvy, pox-ridden knaves. The very second, mind you.’

‘Did you get their language Bosun Stevenson, their dialect? Did you deduce where the maggots hail from?’ asks the Captain.

‘The skipper at least. Malay, I’d guess. The others stayed pretty quiet,’ the Bosun replies. ‘Nervous like.’

‘Guilty conscience I’d wager. Worried we’d smell them out sooner. Well, they’ll be in a right hurry to get home, and away from us. West it is Bosun. All canvas if you please,’ commands the Captain. ‘Every stitch you can get aloft until the sticks beg for mercy.’

‘You heard the Captain! All canvas! Step lively!’ shouts the Bosun, without using his trumpet. The deck immediately transforms into a colony of rushing ants, with each man knowing precisely what he has to do.

The Captain turns to me, ‘Boy, fetch me the open chart from my table. At the double!’

I hurry down the steps towards the Captain’s cabin and return with the chart.

The Captain glances at the map. ‘The only way is up the Malacca Straits between Malaya and Sumatra. With this breeze, they’ll have to head directly towards Sumatra then tack north from there. That’s when we’ll catch up with them. Those junks don’t tack too well.’ He smiles wickedly. ‘Whereas we do. And God help their wretched, miserable hides when we reach them.’

‘Red, Teuku,’ calls out Bosun Stevenson. ‘Watch for a lighthouse on top of the cliffs. It should be off the port side as you go. A squat, square monstrosity it is too. Brown not white. Everyone in these parts uses that as a marker. That’s what they’ll aim for.’

I shoot up the ratlines like a rat across a hot tin roof and even beat Teuku to the crow’s nest.

By midday, I am getting drowsy, with the mast swinging, the sun hot on my back, and not having had any breakfast. We have been sailing at full pace since daybreak.

A shout from Teuku startles me. ‘The lighthouse!’ he yells, pointing left. ‘I see it.’

I peer towards the land in the distance and locate the brown brick lighthouse, jutting up into the sky. I do not know how I missed seeing it sooner. The thing stands out like a Christmas tree. Then something else catches my eye. Below the lighthouse and far to the left, silhouetted against the rugged face of the sea cliffs, a fishing junk with a dirty red sail beats hard against the wind. It dips in and out of sight with the swell, waves crashing over its bow. It is just as the Captain has predicted.

‘And there she is, Captain,’ I, too, call. ‘The trading junk. Way back, just beyond where the cliff has collapsed. Running along the coast.’

‘Well done, lads,’ calls up Bosun Stevenson, this time using his trumpet. ‘You can be relieved now. Get down here. Longest way if you like.’

Teuku slides down the shroud like a monkey, but I climb down carefully, reach the deck and grip the railing to keep myself steady. Up at the masthead, I had not noticed how quickly we were moving, but at deck level and looking over the railing, the speed is remarkable. The wind stretches the canvas sails to breaking point, and water swishes past the hull, leaving a long white wake trailing behind us.

‘You ever played chess, boy?’

I look over my shoulder, surprised the Captain is actually talking to me and not just sending me to fetch and carry, as usual. ‘Chess? Not much, sir. Sometimes. Back at the Curse. Dominos, though, mostly.’

‘An interesting set of moves this could be. Black Knight to move. Do we get ahead of them and force them onto a port tack and straight into the cliffs? With these waves, they’ll be smashed to pieces on the rocks in seconds. Or do we get in close and blow the blaggards out of the water? I suppose we could sit back here and use them as long-range target practice all afternoon. Long Tom would make merry Hell with a junk like that. Blast them into twigs. Checkmate.’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ I reply, pathetically. Well, I don’t.

‘Remember, they’ve got a bagful of our gold on board, Captain,’ interrupts Bosun Stevenson.

‘And we have a hold full of expensive sea water for our trouble,’ replies the Captain, thoughtfully. ‘But you are right, Bosun. There’s no point in sending hard-earned gold to the bottom if we can recover it from those …’ He hesitates then spits it out venomously, ‘… those cockroaches.’

‘I can put a shot across her bow, get ’em to surrender,’ offers Mr Smith.

‘They’ll not surrender,’ replies the Captain grimly. ‘Not in a million years. They know full well we’ll gut their gizzards like so many barracudas the minute we get our hands on them. They know who I am. They would have heard the stories.’

‘Double charge Long Tom, Mr Smith,’ he continues. ‘As soon as we’re in range, drop a shot in behind them. We’ll see if we can drive them towards the open sea. They’ll try to out run us and reach the island’s coves facing the north coast but they have no chance of that, especially in this breeze.’

The gun crew are ready in minutes. Mr Smith peers along the barrel and using a wheel on a long screw, adjusts the gun carriage to its maximum height for the longest shot. Eventually, he seems satisfied and looks up, ready to pull the cord on the trigger.

‘Whenever youse is ready, Cap’n,’ he says.

When the double charge from Long Tom fires, it fairly rips the air apart, and the shock wave of the massive charge goes straight through me, shaking me from my ears right down to my toes. A ten-foot column of flame bursts from the cannon’s mouth. Moments later, part of the distant cliff, above and behind the fishing junk, explodes in a puff of red dust as the cannonball strikes. I stand there with my mouth open in shock as the acrid stink of the gunpowder fills the air for a brief second, then immediately blows away in the wind.

‘Holy Moses!’ exclaims someone close by.

The Bosun lifts his telescope to his eye. ‘It worked. They’re going about. Changing tack to seaward.’

‘Bosun, do you think you can get us in close to that point?’ says the Captain, pointing to where the green jungle meets the sea.

‘Not too close, Captain. Submerged rocks. I’ve been here before. But I’ll do my best, sir.’

Bosun Stevenson looks towards the helmsman and nods. The helmsman immediately spins the wheel to the right, and the motion of the boat changes a shade.

‘’scuse me, Cap’n!’

‘What is it, Mr Smith?’ replies the Captain, turning slightly to face him.

Mr Smith’s face has turned pale. He seems suddenly very alarmed, as he points to starboard, amidships. He does not need to say anything.

Clearing the headland and bearing down on us rapidly thunders an enormous frigate. The canvas on all three masts full, with the decks cleared for action and her gun ports open. Moreover, flying from her backstay, three flags whip colourfully in the wind; the white and blue flag of the Netherlands, the pennant of a Captain, and the Dutch battle ensign.

THE FRIGATE

‘Where did that come from?’ exclaims the Bosun, genuinely surprised. ‘God preserve us.’

The massive old frigate, its timbers painted blue and bright yellow, is racing straight at us.

‘The Willem that’ll be, Captain,’ says Bosun Stevenson recovering his composure. ‘Thirty-six guns, if I remember correctly. Always on patrol in these parts, looking for smugglers and pirates. She is old and slow but mighty powerful. Nothing can stand up to those guns. Nothing. Last of the line she is.’ In spite of the certain danger, he sounds almost proud to be seeing such a magnificent old ship.

‘Still think the East Indies is theirs, them Dutch do,’ adds Mr Smith.

‘They are still mostly theirs,’ replies the Captain.

The deadly cliffs and hidden rocks of the point lie directly ahead, while, to the left, the coast and the shallows of a wide sandy bay block our way. To the right, directly into the wind, looms a warship armed with three dozen thirty-two pounder guns that can turn a whole town into rubble in an hour. They can also turn the bravest man’s bowels to liquid in an instant, or a boy’s even quicker. I look about the deck. The men are silent, some visibly frightened, and most wait for the Captain’s reaction.

You do not need to be an experienced sailor to know this is not good.

‘Bosun Stevenson,’ the Captain calls calmly, loud enough for us all to hear. ‘Remember our scrap with that scurvy pirate south of Hong Kong a couple of years ago? How we got out of it?’ Several men smile. ‘It worked then, God rot him. I don’t see why it shouldn’t work now.’

‘Except that pirate wasn’t a thirty-six-gun frigate bearing down on our heads,’ says Bosun Stevenson.

‘The principle’s the same. We’ll just have to be quicker by half,’ he replies.

‘If you say so, sir.’

‘Bosun Stevenson, take us about and set a course for that beach yonder, if you’d be so kind. And Mr Smith, I suggest you load and prime the three port guns. Load them with grapeshot, the biggest you have. Double charge, I suggest. We want to do some grievous damage here today.’

Even before Mr Smith relays the order, the gun crew has started work, using block and tackle to pull the wooden gun carriages to the rail. Both the carriage wheels and pulley wheels squeal in protest as the men grunt with the effort.

I know my job. I scamper off down the ladder into the gun locker below the waterline, to bring up more sacks of gunpowder. In spite of the darkness, I am not allowed to use a lantern because of the explosive black powder. I feel about in the blackness, find the powder sacks stacked up and run back in minutes, breathing heavily from the weight of the measured sacks in which the gunpowder charges are packed.

‘Bosun, ease off the mainsail, let the Dutch think they can catch us. Not too much, though. We want to keep out of range of those damn thirty-two pounders,’ orders the Captain, quietly. ‘We have a few minutes now. Everyone take a deep breath and be calm.’

Be calm? How? I look back at the massive ship and wonder if this is to be my last day on Earth. It certainly seems likely. My heart starts pounding so loudly I think everyone will be able to hear it.

BATTLE

‘Boy?’ calls the Captain, snapping me out of my daze.

‘Captain?’

‘If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you. If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew to serve your turn long after they are gone, yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it. And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son,’ he continues.

‘Captain?’

‘Not Mr Shakespeare this one time, boy, but a brand new poem by Mr Rudyard Kipling. Quite apt for this situation, don’t you think?’

Quoting poetry as if he is in an English drawing room full of genteel ladies when we are facing certain death? Sometimes, I think the Captain is completely crazy.

‘Boy, stick close by me now,’ he adds, breaking the calm. ‘I might need you when things start to get hot.’ The Captain stands to the left of Bosun Stevenson at the helm, where he can keep an eye on the binnacle, a small cabinet where the ship’s compass is mounted.

‘First off you can get rid of this.’ He takes off his black peaked cap and hands it to me. ‘No need to make myself a target for all those Dutch sharpshooters they are sending aloft.’

Without his cap, the Captain looks more like one of us and less like an officer, but not quite.

‘Watch this next manoeuvre carefully, boy,’ he commands. ‘We can outrun them easily, but we can’t outrun a broadside of cannon balls. So we have to box clever. This next little trick has saved our lives before, and it may do the same for you one day. Pay close attention, and watch your head. When the boom whips across, this time, it will be vicious. Could take your head clean off at the shoulders.’

In spite of the increasing wind, we keep hearing snatches of kettledrums in the distance, beating the Dutch to their stations on the frigate.

Over the next half-hour, the frigate grows slowly but steadily closer to our stern until we can just hear the Dutch shouting at us. I cannot understand their words, but it is easy to get their meaning, and they sound confident. They have two hundred or more men to our twelve, and we only have a handful of small guns, whereas their ship bristles with thirty-two-pound monsters that fire cannonballs as big as a man’s head.

‘Listen to them. Pride comes before a fall, eh, Bosun?’ laughs the Captain, quietly. I cannot understand how he can remain so calm.

Moments later, from behind me, I hear Bosun Stevenson begin humming the hymn, Abide With Me.

The Captain begins softly singing the words, almost to himself. ‘The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.’

One by one, the rest of the crew join in, even Rowdy, who hardly ever says a word.

Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;

The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.

When other helpers fail and comforts flee,

Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;

Earth’s joys grow dim; its glories pass away;

Change and decay in all around I see;

O Thou who changest not, abide with me.

I am surprised and moved by the melancholic harmony all around me. I have no idea how we can possibly survive this. None at all. Even if we surrender, the Dutch will probably hang us as pirates, or worse, as spies. Either way, we’ll be dancing the hempen jig from a yardarm before this day is out. I look about. The men know they are facing almost certain death, but none seems frightened anymore, just rather resigned to their fate. Other than the Bosun, the crew are not generally religious, but the gentle tune appears to comfort them.

‘Ready men,’ Captain Bowen shouts suddenly. ‘You know how it goes. In five.’ He nods his head five times, counting the seconds. ‘Now!’

The Bosun immediately spins the wheel to port. The crew let go the jib sheets, and the jibs fill with wind, then collapse, then fill again as they are pulled over to the other side, dragging the bow of our boat smoothly around, spilling the wind in the mainsail. The boom swings across the entire stern faster than an arrow and crashes into place with a mighty whack. The mainsail immediately fills with the rising breeze again. The Captain has jibed across the wind. Now the Black Dragon beats back out to sea, in almost the opposite direction, while the Willem billows its way relentlessly towards the beach, far too quickly it seems to me. The sand is now only a few hundred yards ahead.

‘Vuur de kanonnen, wanneer het schip binnen bereik!’ yells an officer on the frigate.

The Captain laughs. ‘They’ll be fortunate if they can swing that. They can fire all they like, but we won’t be in range. Look at the angle the deck is on. It’ll take them ages to re-sight. It looks like we might’ve caught the Dutch with their pantaloons down.’

The first frigate gun roars out, then the second, third and fourth, but their shots land short, way off our port side and behind us, sending up harmless sprays in our growing wake as we slice back towards the open sea.

The massive ship is only shouting distance away, so we can hear the officers yell frantically. Sailors scurry up the ratlines and out onto the yardarms in a desperate effort to reef in the square sails and cut the ship’s speed. The momentum still surges the massive ship forward, and the deck still leans at an angle, so the guns point uselessly down into the water.

‘Hold her steady, Bosun Stevenson,’ warns the Captain, quietly. ‘Ready men, ready to go about,’ he calls. ‘On my mark. About!’

Again, the Bosun quickly swings the helm to port, and this time, the boom swings slowly across, but only to the other windward tack. Almost immediately, and to my surprise, we are directly behind the warship. The great cabin’s wall of glass shines and glistens in the light and looms high above us.

‘One, two and three, youse know where!’ yells Mr Smith, standing at the first gun. ‘Let ’em ’ave it! Fire!’

The three guns on our port side roar together. Three elongated columns of yellow flame explode from the muzzles and the ear-shattering cracks reverberate in my head and through my whole body. I blink several times and peer through the acrid smoke. At first, it looks like our gunners have missed. There does not seem to be much damage to the frigate at all, only a few broken windows. Up in the Willem’s rigging, I can also see the sporadic flashes from rifles firing at us, but we must be out of range as no shots hit.

The Captain sees the look of disbelief on my face. ‘Look at the water line there, boy,’ he says, pointing towards the ship. ‘With a little luck, our grapeshot has splintered their rudder and shattered their steering mechanisms. The frigate should be out of control with no way to turn in time and avoid the shallows now.’

The crew has fallen silent, as if mesmerised, watching the frigate plough on slowly, but relentlessly towards the shore.

A whizzing noise rips the air directly above our heads. I look up in surprise. A jagged hole the size of a fist has ripped through in the mainsail. The crash of a small cannon immediately follows loud and clear.

‘Damn, they’ve got a stern-chaser. Get your heads d—’

Before the Captain can finish, a deep rumble like the crash of lightning and the distant rolling thunder of a summer storm rises from the very depths of the ocean.

‘The frigate’s done hit the shallows. Damn me, she’s run aground!’ calls someone on the foredeck. ‘There goes the main mast.’

Slowly at first, then more quickly as her stays and shrouds stretch and snap, the mainmast tilts forward, the wind hard against her canvas still trying to drive the big ship forward into the sand. Sailors up in the rigging drop from the ropes high among the canvas, along with rifles and hats and equipment. Some lucky fellows fall into the sea with a cry and survive, but others plummet to the deck below, their screams loud and carried on the wind, then suddenly cut short. Several men hang in the air, caught in the mess of rigging ropes like tragic spiders in their webs.

The Captain nods to the Bosun. ‘Well done, men. I do believe you may have saved our bacon, so to speak.’

‘It’s a pity, to be sure, for she is a proud looking vessel,’ says Bosun Stevenson, quietly. ‘Magnificent. The last of her kind.’

‘Now, time for us to depart,’ says the Captain. ‘We have a living to earn, as much as it pains a gentleman to have to admit such a terrible thing. The shame of being in trade.’

There are several small chuckles.

Me, I sigh deeply and grip my hands together to stop them shaking.

‘Slim pickings so far this voyage,’ he continues. ‘But better luck than a certain captain not far from here. It’s one thing to run into submerged rocks on a fog-bound evening on some foreign coast, but quite another to run a fully-armed warship aground on a sandy beach in broad daylight on your own damn shore. That will certainly take some explaining.’

‘It is going to take a goodly effort to get her off too, I’d say,’ adds the Bosun. ‘It seems God was on our side today, not theirs.’

We head nor’ by nor’-west at a more than steady pace, ploughing into the increasingly large waves that flick spray back across the deck, soaking us all. Bosun Stevenson wants our mainsail repaired and keeps grumbling it will tear all the way to the boom, but the Captain is not going to stop until we are well away from the coast, and he feels safe to heave-to for the repair. A frigate beached like a whale will soon attract all sorts of unwelcome attention to the area, and we need to be well away. After such a close shave, none of us cares. We are just glad to be alive.

TROPICAL TEMPEST

The smell of stew being boiled up by Sam Chi wafts up from the galley for several hours before we are called below for an early dinner. The Dragon sails in open water, running on her foresail, so only the helmsman, a lookout and a jib man to trim the sheet are needed on deck to keep the boat steady. I am glad it isn’t me on duty as I am starving, and it has been torture smelling the stew cooking.

Teuku has just handed out the plates, and Sam Chi is still ladling out the steaming stew when the Captain appears. ‘Do you mind if I join you, men?’ The chatter and noise immediately stop.

Unlike the Navy, with its strict class division between the officers and crew, our Captain mixes with the crew all the time. He is not like any of the naval officers I have ever met at the Curse. Most of them are self-important stuck-up prigs if you ask me. And they are stingy with their money, even worse than a church minister, and that is as mean as you can possibly get.

The Captain sits on a stool at the head of the long bench and pulls a lantern closer so we can all see him. Everyone waits for him to speak, but Sam Chi yells instead, ‘Teuku, another plate. At the double, you useless excuse.’

‘An eventful day, and I’m proud of you all,’ says the Captain. ‘But nothing to show for it, I’m afraid. Nothing. Those Malay pirates have stolen our stake and are no doubt hiding away somewhere deep and dark. They’ll be shivering in their boots at the thought of what we’ll do to them when we catch them.’ The Captain suddenly jams his eating knife into the bench. He pauses to let the men imagine the worst. ‘Now, here we are out in the open sea again, and there looks to be a mighty storm blowing up. Bosun Stevenson?’

‘Aye, Captain. There is a fair nip in the wind, and it’s shifted to a nor’-easterly. And no sunset from the look of it tonight. I can feel it in my bones. A right biblical tempest is brewing, if I’m any judge,’ replies the Bosun.

‘Teuku, you know the coast here about. We need to put into shelter until she blows over. How say you?’

The crew has experienced enough tropical storms to be wary of them. Several nod enthusiastically.

Bosun Stevenson speaks first. ‘I’d say we’ve time to make a run back to the coast before the worst of it, Captain. With the nor-easterly the old girl will be on a broad reach. We’ll fair know we’re sailing then. God’s own speed.’

The men stay silent, all listening to the Bosun.

‘I know a place,’ says Teuku. ‘It’s a river mouth with good-sized hills either side, nor’-east lee of the land. The countryside about there is thick with jungle, so we shouldn’t bump into any of our European friends, with a little good luck.’ He looks at the men’s faces for their reactions.

‘And here’s hoping the good Lord will help protect you lot of Godless heathens from the wrath of His weather,’ says the Bosun.

‘Splendid Bosun Stevenson, we’ll all be grateful to you, I’m sure,’ replies Captain Bowen. ‘Just time enough for us to finish our stew, I trust? It smells delicious, Sam Chi, well done.’

When we go back up on deck, the weather has indeed turned. I cannot believe it has changed so much and so violently in the short time we have been below.

The Dragon races out to sea and away from land. We clear the far headland, and the bow begins plunging deeper into the swell in a rhythmic gallop. I’ve seen plenty of storms in Broome, but this sky is darker than I’ve ever seen before and the air is thick with the threat of it. Facing a frigate is nothing compared to what is forming on the horizon behind us. Storms have no pity and can kill with just one rogue wave, and we now face an endless ocean of rogue waves.

‘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

‘Bosun Stevenson, if you please,’ calls the Captain, pushing himself to his feet.

He is still on one knee when a figure bursts from the open hatchway on deck. His eyes wild with fury, the man races across the deck and launches himself from the boat’s rail. We barely have a second to react before the man is across the gap between the vessel and the path, a long sugar cane-cutting knife in his hand. The blade comes down straight at the Captain.

The Captain falls back away from the sharpened steel, and the tip of the knife misses him by inches. It hits the path with a nasty clang and a spray of sparks.

The Captain is quick to recover. He rolls over and jumps up, drawing out a stiletto from his boot.

The sailor slashes, but the Captain blocks with his thin blade. The man slashes again, a long swift cut from up high, but the Captain steps to one side and the blade whisks harmlessly through the air. The Captain takes up a traditional fencing position, with his left hand high in the air to balance himself. He skips forward two paces and thrusts his blade straight at the sailor’s chest. The sailor sees it coming and steps back. The Captain repeats the move before the man can even lift his blade in the air again. This time, the Captain slashes his knife straight down, and the sailor steps backwards again, but the tip of the Captain’s knife slits open the man’s shirt right across his chest.

‘Step aside, Captain!’ shouts Mr Smith from the base of the cliff. ‘I’ve reloaded. Let me finish the swine.’

The Captain does not seem to hear. He makes a full, forceful cut that would have split the sailor in half if it had connected. The sailor skips nimbly back, but this time, he has miscalculated. With a cry of shock, the man steps back into thin air, straight off the dock’s edge, and into the river with a loud splash.

We all race to the Captain.

‘Captain?’ asks Bosun Stevenson, concerned.

‘Thank you, Bosun Stevenson, I am fine, in spite of the efforts of our wet friend down there.’

In the water, the sailor struggles desperately to stay afloat, flapping the surface with his arms. He does not cry out for help even though he knows he has only a minute or so to live. He is not far from the steps, but we all know he will never reach them.

‘Look, Captain, he’s one of us,’ announces Bosun Stevenson, peering down into the water at the stricken sailor. The man’s shredded shirt has come off and across his back a dreadful mess of vivid red and older white stripes and raised welts is clearly visible. ‘Looks like he’s tasted the cat more than once, if I’m any judge. And I am.’

Several men chuckle.

‘A not so Jolly Jack Tar,’ says the Captain. ‘Perhaps we had better see what he has to say for himself.’ He looks about and sees me. ‘You, boy.’ The Captain nods towards the stern of the Loggerhead where a length of rope lies coiled on the deck.

I run and jump across the gap, only just making the distance. I reach for the rope and quickly tie a bowline loop in the end, the way Mr Smith showed me, and fling it overboard towards the drowning sailor. Still panicking, he thrashes about, but eventually manages to get his left arm into the loop.

‘Keep still! I have you!’ I yell, pulling on the rope. He is heavy and he slips back under so his mouth fills and he chokes.

‘Stop strugglin’, youse blessed fool!’ yells down Mr Smith. ‘Or I’ll put a bullet in ya skull, so help me I will!’

To my surprise, the threat works, and the man relaxes and manages to grip the rope and haul his head above water. Bosun Stevenson and Mr Cord leap across the gap onto the boat and together we haul him up and onto the deck.

The Loggerhead has started to drift slowly away from the path. The Bosun steps around the gruesome mess of Sims’ blood on the deck, grabs the mooring rope and throws it ashore. Teuku grabs the rope and loops it over the old cannon bollard.

I look across at the Captain and am surprised to see he seems a little shaken, but he immediately grips his hands behind his back, the way officers often do. No one else sees the slight shaking of his hands, or the major shaking of mine. I’ve never seen someone get their head blown off at close range. It is not a pretty sight.

‘A beautiful shot, Mr Smith,’ the Captain calls ‘Saved my bacon, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Pleasure, Cap’n,’ replies Mr Smith.

‘Now my good fellow,’ says the Captain, turning to the half-naked sailor shivering at his feet. It must have been fright as the water really isn’t that cold. ‘If you would inform me, firstly, of your name, and secondly, of your business, I would be grateful.’

The man stays silent, his face sullen and defiant.

‘Don’t youse be rude to our Cap’n, ya scurvy sea dog,’ warns Mr Smith, prodding the sailor with the end of his rifle. ‘He’s a gentleman, he is, and shouldn’t ’ave to be dealin’ with the likes of youse. One more dose of disrespect and it’ll be back into the drink with ya.’

‘Briggs, I am, Captain, sir,’ says the sailor, obviously believing him. ‘I mean no disrespect, sir. Adam Briggs.’

‘He’s served on the Lady Nelson, down Tasmania way, if I’s not mistook, Cap’n,’ says Mr Smith. ‘Keen on the lash, their bosun were, back on that ol’ tub. I recognise ’is ’andiwork. Sweeny. Swiney, we all used to call the butcher. Always used the same pattern ’e did when ’e was whippin’, and ’e signed off with a Union Jack on the right shoulder with his last four lashes.’

Sure enough, the sailor’s right shoulder has a raised crisscross mess of healed welts inflicted by a lead-tipped cat o’ nine tails whip.

‘Answer the Captain truthfully,’ orders Bosun Stevenson. ‘And perhaps we’ll get you dried and fed as well. What are you carrying in that tub?’

‘Guns, sir. Rifles. Like you got there.’ He nodded at the one inches from his face.

‘Government guns?’

‘Yes, sir. Enfields. That’s what’s writ on the boxes. From England, they come originally, but Captain Sims, he got them in Singapore.’ Briggs’s voice is shaky with fear.

‘Well, that would be treason to my way of thinking,’ says the Captain. ‘Trading in stolen guns from the Queens’s own armoury. High treason. Shameful dealings. Most shameful indeed. Just as well the British Navy didn’t catch you. They wouldn’t be able to find a yard-arm high enough to hang you all.’ The Captain lets the thought sink in. ‘So who was Sims’s customer? Were they to be used against good colonial soldiers perhaps?’

Briggs glances up, still expecting to die. Attacking a Captain as he has just done would have been almost instant death in the Royal Navy, as soon as the paperwork was completed, of course.

‘No, Captain, sir, they are for the rebels fighting the Dutch here on Aceh.’

‘Well, that is slightly better. At least, someone won’t be shooting at Englishmen with them. The Sumatrans need some assistance. All the help they can get. Whereabouts was the delivery to be made?’ asks the Captain.

‘I don’t rightly know, sir. West of here, we were headed, sir, but the storm …’ Briggs trails off, uncertainly.

‘Mr Cord, check their hold if you would be so good,’ says the Captain. ‘And while we wait, Briggs, you can tell me how is it a Navy man ended up with a murderous old villain like Sims. God rot his wretched, pox-ridden soul.’

‘My ship, the Agamemnon, had called in at Georgetown in Penang, and I hadn’t returned in time when she sailed,’ says Briggs. ‘I didn’t mean to. I fell asleep. But the Navy’ll be wanting me for a deserter now. They might hang me. I don’t want that, Captain, so I joined Sims when he called in port a week later. I had no real choice. Anything’s better than hanging.’

‘I dunno about that,’ interrupts Bosun Stevenson. ‘Keelhauling would be worse.’

‘What’s keelhauling?’ I whisper to Mr Smith.

‘It’s when youse gets a rope tied to you, and youse is throwed overboard, then youse get ’auled right under the ship from one side and up the other. The barnacles on the bottom cuts youse to ribbons, if youse don’t drown first, or the sharks eat you.’

‘Oh,’ I say, slightly shocked. ‘The Bosun is going to do that to him?’

‘Maybe. Flogging Round the Fleet was a pretty bad way to go too, back in the old days,’ Mr Smith continues. ‘Youse got fifty lashes on every ship in the Admiral’s fleet. A important Admiral with lots of ships and youse was done for. Mincemeat youse’d be before youse was ’alf-way though, and deader than maggot-infested mutton by the finish. And they didn’t let up. Kept on floggin’ even though youse were gone.’

BACK IN BUSINESS

‘Captain, sir!’ calls Mr Cord from Sims’ deck. ‘Pardon, sir, I think you’d better come and have look over here, sir.’ Mr Cord looks down at the mess of blood he stands in. ‘No, sorry, sir, stay there, sir. I beg your pardon.’

On to the increasingly blood-stained deck of the Loggerhead, Mr Cord hauls up a long, narrow wooden crate about six feet long from the open grate. He manhandles it ashore and sets it down on the rough pathway. The light coloured wood is branded Royal Small Arms Factory, Enfield Lock, London, along with the mark of the Queen’s crown.

Mr Smith uses the butt of his rifle to crack the box open. Padded out with wood shavings, the pine box contains six brand new rifles, just as Briggs stated, their walnut stocks polished, and their oiled steel fittings gleaming.

‘Martini-Henrys. Nice. There’ll be a few rebels fighting near here who could put these beauties to good use, I’d wager,’ exclaims Bosun Stevenson. ‘Fine pieces.’

‘There are hundreds of these, sir,’ says Mr Cord. ‘Hundreds of boxes. The hold is jam-packed full of them. There’s not even room for a bilge rat down there.’

The Captain walks away a few paces, his hands still behind him, deep in thought, and then returns to the same spot. ‘Well, Mr Adam Briggs, formerly of her sometimes gracious Majesty’s Navy, and recent gun-runner and worthless traitor, no better than a common pirate,’ he begins. ‘We have three choices.’ He holds up his hand and turns down his fingers one at a time as he counts. ‘One, we hang you here and now as a traitor and you can, indeed, go dancing with Jack Ketch, as you so reasonably fear, but, more importantly, deserve. We have a gaff high enough to swing you from.’ He nods towards the mast of the Dragon. ‘Two, we throw you back in the sea. Or three,’ the Captain pauses for a long time before continuing. ‘You can pledge your loyalty to me and join us. As I’ve just experienced, you can handle a blade. With more enthusiasm than skill, but that works. You should be useful in a fight, and you obviously know the sea. Ten years before the mast, has it been?’

The sailor looks up in surprise, the Captain’s reprieve being the last thing he expects. ‘More like thirty or more, sir,’ he says. ‘Since I was a lad.’

‘So what it’s to be, Briggs?’ The Captain pauses to let Briggs decide though there are no real options that I can see. It is either join us or die. ‘On the Black Dragon, the Captain, who as you would have gathered by now, is my good self, takes fifty percent of everything we make, in accordance with it being my vessel. The officers, two shares of the rest, and the men, one share. What’s your word, sir?’

Briggs stands straight and looks the Captain in the eye, ‘I’ll be pleased to join you, Captain Bowen.’ He raises his right hand to his forehead in a salute.

‘Now, we’ll have none of that on the Dragon. We all had enough of that sort of nonsense years ago.’

‘Yes, Captain. Sorry, sir. Old habits die hard …’ His voice trails away.

‘Boy, if you could be so kind, take Briggs here to the hut,’ instructs the Captain. ‘Sam Chi might find him some victuals. Oh, and Briggs? You will need this I’m sure in the coming days.’

Surprisingly, the Captain picks up the cane-cutting knife and gently throws it to him. Briggs twists his wrist to catch it by the handle, thankful, no doubt, to be carrying the blade and not have it stuck in the middle of his guts.

In the hut, Briggs stands with his back to the fire, a smile on his face as if he can hardly believe his luck. But then, I don’t suppose he can believe it.

‘Your Captain,’ he asks. ‘He’s alright then?’

‘Mostly,’ I say. ‘Unless you cross him, then he’ll rip your guts out I’ve been told, with no more thought than if you are pearl meat in a shell.’

‘It was you who threw me the rope,’ he continues. ‘Just as well for me, eh?’ Judging by how sentimental sailors are, I guess this is as close as I am going to get to a word of thanks for saving his hide from drowning.

While Briggs tucks into a tankard of hot tea and several of Sam Chi’s fruit dumplings, I sit and stare at the fire wondering about the coming days. We are safe from the weather, but we are smugglers in a foreign country, and if any soldiers appeared on the cliffs surrounding the inlet, we would be trapped like rats in a barrel. They could rain fire down on us day and night with no way of us escaping.

Outside, I hear the sea crashing against rocks all along the coast, and it sounds so much like distant gunfire. With the way my luck has been running recently, I would not be in the least bit surprised if it actually was.

FORAGING

Although the storm has cleared, the wind continues blowing relentlessly from the nor’-east, leaving Bosun Stevenson unable to guide the Dragon out of the inlet. So we wait, feeling increasingly vulnerable.

After transferring the cargo of rifles to the hold of the Dragon, a job that takes hours, the men have little to do. Some gamble and play cards, or work on carving their model ships and other toys, but mostly they smoke and stare at the water, much as they do at sea. I sit leaning against the wall of the house and begin to reread The Adventures of Tom Sawyer for the third time. Tom reminds me of myself a bit, but with more luck than I possess at present. I seem to have about as much luck as the poor orphan Huckleberry Finn — little to none.

On the third day, Sam Chi, Teuku and two other men return from searching the jungle for food.

‘Ahoy!’ Teuku calls as they grow closer. He carries a dead monkey over his shoulder. It looks good and plump, but it is the only one, and nowhere near enough to feed us all. One of the other men has a bag of fruit, and Sam Chi has a length of python over his shoulder. I know the Aborigines back home in Broome eat snake by the ton, but I think I’d have to be starving to death before I’d try it. Snake? Can you imagine a hunk of boa constrictor between two slices of bread? No, thank you.

‘Sorry, Captain,’ says Sam Chi. ‘But there isn’t anything any which way we walked. Not a living soul. No houses, no rice paddies, nothing growing. Just jungle and grassland. And more jungle.’ He sits down with a long sigh, clearly worn out. ‘There aren’t even any decent edible weeds.’

‘I hope it won’t come to us eating weeds,’ says the Captain, sounding more hopeful than most of us feel. ‘No matter. Tomorrow we’ll try up the coast. We’ll take the dinghy. On the chart, there’s a village about half a day away. We’ll chance our luck there.’

‘Will the people sell us food? Us being foreign?’ I ask Mr Smith.

‘There’ll not be a problem, just as long as they don’t think we’s Dutch. Besides, there’s nothin’ foreign about gold coin. And if the gold fails — and it never do — there’s always them new rifles. Good persuaders they’ll be, I wager.’

At dawn the next morning, after a breakfast of monkey stew, the most disgusting meal I think I have ever eaten, we set out. Bosun Stevenson has the helm, and the Captain sits forward on the front thwart while six of us row. We have stowed a box of the new rifles, all loaded and ready to fire.

With the wind blowing us along the coast, the rowing is much less strenuous than the day we hauled the Dragon into the inlet, but even so I soon have a sweat up.

‘Take a break, men,’ orders Bosun Stevenson.

I lean forward on my oar, raising it up to stop it dragging in the water and perhaps tangling with the oar of Rowdy, the man in front of me. I can just imagine his reaction if I did that.

To port, right at the base of a small cliff, are the remains of what may have been a mission settlement. Much of the cliff has eroded so that parts of the white weatherboard church have crumbled and fallen into the sea. A small jetty has collapsed as well with just a few black barnacleencrusted pylons showing above the water. The belltower still stands, with huge dark holes, like the eyes of a blind beggar. I don’t know why the missionaries bother trying to convert the people in these parts. They seem perfectly happy with their own religion.

An hour later, we come to a spit of land that protrudes out into the sea. It is mostly pale, orange coloured rock washed smooth by the waves, with a few small palm trees growing further back beyond the high water line. Rings of darker tidemarks colour the stones closest to the water and small crabs scurry across the surface.

Ahead is a cove lined with woven coconut-fibre huts and bamboo houses on rickety stilts over the water. Waves wash up under them. Washing hangs from bamboo poles and flutters wildly in the warm wind. Beyond the houses, a small town square faces onto the waterfront, and on the other three sides, large corrugated iron warehouses fill the space. On the far side of the bay, I can see a decent sized jetty still under construction. A steam pile driver sits inactive and no ships are tied to the pylons.

Inland, the pyramidal roof of a mosque surrounded by an extensive walled courtyard stands out. Next to that, another substantial building has a sign on its roof reading Mariner Tabac Export. The aromatic smell of harvested tobacco leaf pervades the town.

Beyond the new buildings yet another long building, this one with many windows, stands apart from the others. It has a military feel to it, all neat and clean and with a space big enough for a parade ground. Whitewashed rocks mark out pathways and the Dutch flag flies aloft from a flagpole at the far end.

‘Where did all this building work come from?’ says the Captain surprised. ‘Last time we sailed this coast this was just a tiny fishing village off in the distance. Now it looks like a Dutch garrison and port.’

As we draw closer the usual poo-stink of civilisation reaches us. The hot afternoon has emptied the streets of people. The smoke from cooking fires spirals upwards into the sky from the houses and is quickly blown away. Some scrawny long-legged chooks peck the ground and squabble with each other, but everything else is silent.

‘Now that’s rubbing salt in the wounds,’ groans Mr Cord, rubbing his stomach as someone’s lunch of cabbage and onions wafts over us. It is not the spicy smell of local Sumatran food, but that of Europeans — Dutchmen.

‘Bosun Stevenson,’ says the Captain. ‘Can you see somewhere quiet to land? No need to scare the locals by arriving armed and dangerous on their front door, right at midday when most people are taking it easy. Fortunate timing actually. We can be in and out of here before anyone wakes up and even notices.’

‘Cap’n,’ says Mr Smith. ‘The Dutch don’t take siestas I seems to remember.’

‘You are right, Mr Smith. We’ll need to be doubly careful.’

‘Captain,’ says Bosun Stevenson. ‘That stand of coconut palms ahead there, at the water’s edge would be a good spot. The bottom looks clear, and the trees will afford some shade.’

The Captain agrees.

The Bosun adjusts the tiller slightly. ‘Starboard side, half a stroke. Port side, ship oars.’

We do as he calls, and the dinghy glides to a halt on the sand, so the Captain is able to step ashore from the bow without getting his boots wet.

‘Thank you Bosun Stevenson, and well done as usual,’ he says. ‘Stay and guard the dinghy while the rest of us go and forage in the town. Take only pistols, men, and keep them hidden as much as possible. Remember, we want to look like regular ship’s crew, not a gang of foreign pirates coming to plunder. That could be a barracks, so if you see a uniform, hide. We don’t need a repeat of last time we were in these climes. Keep your wits about you.’

‘Those what has wits,’ says the Bosun, quietly.

‘As before, Mr Smith,’ continues the Captain. ‘You and Mr Cord follow behind and watch our backs.’

CAPTURED

Something about the town gives me the creeps. The native buildings are mostly old and shabby and built on stilts, with raised wooden walkways connecting them. The shutters and doors are all closed against the sun. The streets seem to creak like a sailing ship as the wind whistles around the bamboo huts and along narrow alleyways. Open drains full of rubbish run down the middle of the muddy streets.

Fishermen’s discarded nets and pots and ropes and every kind of jetsam are strewn about the waterfront. Fishing boats bob at their moorings. Behind the warehouses, a maze of narrow lanes and passages and more open drains and walkways wiggle back up the hill towards the mosque.

At the corner where two warehouses meet and form a square, a ragged canvas awning hangs from four poles. Three prisoners dressed in rags and parts of uniform sprawl beneath it in the shade, all asleep. None wear boots and their ankles have been chained to bolts in the wall. Nearby, in front of a pockmarked section of a wall, a single, red-stained pole stands menacingly.

Can that be a firing squad pole? What do they have around the next corner, an armed welcoming committee? I feel even more nervous than usual. I have every reason to be. We are a tiny bunch of lightly armed foreigners in what looks to be a new garrison town in a Dutch colony during a war.

Within ten minutes, we find bread by following our noses. The smell of freshly cooked loaves is particularly delicious considering how ravenously hungry we all are.

Mr Smith bangs heavily on the door with the butt of his Colt.

A sweating local man peers out. He wipes his hands on his dirty apron. ‘Eh?’ he shouts. When the Captain takes several shiny coins from his pocket and places them on the baker’s palm, his frown turns to a reluctant smile. He immediately swings the door open wider and begins loading flour sacks with bread.

‘Boy,’ orders the Captain. ‘Have a scout down that street and see if you can find someone who’ll sell us some meat. Not monkey mind you. I still can’t get the damn taste out of my mouth.’

I head outside, but regrettably, I soon find more than meat. I have gone less than a hundred paces when a Dutch soldier steps from a doorway right into my path. I stop in surprise. He holds a rifle with the longest silver bayonet attached, pointed directly at my chest. Startled, I find myself, within seconds, surrounded by a mass of blue and white uniforms.

‘I’m a civilian!’ I protest. ‘A sailor.’ When that does not work, I try, ‘I’m a schoolboy.’ However, the soldiers just urge me back along the street without a word, pointing their rifles.

‘Oh, not youse too,’ says Mr Smith, quietly. He stands in the laneway with his hands tied in front of him and a soldier pointing a rifle at his head.

As the Captain steps into the street from the bread house, his pistol is wrenched from his grip. There is no point struggling as there are just too many soldiers.

Like a herd of sheep, we are shepherded along the alleyways to a square near the boat harbour and up to the wall of a warehouse.

With the stories Teuku had told me about the Dutch, I wonder if they are about to shoot us there and then against the wall.

‘Sit!’ orders a soldier instead.

An hour or more passes, though it feels like much longer with the sun beating down on us. We can hear muffled screams somewhere nearby. It is a truly terrifying noise, like someone in complete agony. The crew glance at each other uneasily. What is happening? What horrible fate awaits us? Are we to be next?

Mr Smith frowns. ‘That don’t sound too good. Not good at all.’

The soldiers are restless and appear to be waiting for someone or something. They pace up and down but never take their eyes from us. Eventually, a young lieutenant carrying a bunch of keys arrives. He is red in the face, his uniform is buttoned up incorrectly, his hat is missing and his braces hang below his tunic. Maybe he had been having one of those siestas that the Dutch aren’t supposed to have.

The young lieutenant rattles the lock open and the soldiers force us into the pitch black of the tin warehouse with the point of their bayonets.

‘What’s that pong?’ asks Briggs, looking shocked.

As Mr Smith, the last man goes in, the soldier hands him a bucket. ‘Water,’ he says. The door is bolted behind us with a final, ominous clang.

‘I’ll wager this be not ’ow youse planned for the day to go, Cap’n,’ says Mr Smith, with a sigh.

‘Indeed not, Mr Smith. Any suggestions on how we might improve it?’

‘I’m thinkin’ a huge roast of fresh spring lamb with mint sauce, just like my old ma used to cook, would finish the day off better.’

‘I was thinking more along the lines of suggestions on how we get out of this rather smelly, hot tin box before they shoot us all.’

‘Sorry, Cap’n. Just tryin’ to …’ Mr Smith’s voice trails away, embarrassed.

IN THE PRISON CELL

It takes some while to become accustomed to the gloom and the stench and the baking heat radiating from the tin walls. The warehouse must have been used for drying fish or shark fin or something similar in the recent past as the strong smell lingers. Light from rust holes in the roof high above casts patterns on the floor. I watch as an enormous black rat scurries into a pile of rags in the far corner. A soft groan comes from the clothes, and a tattooed arm raises slowly and drops suddenly.

‘It’s Stevenson,’ cries Mr Smith in surprise. ‘They’ve gone and captured ’im as well.’

Bosun Stevenson lies spread-eagled on his back, shivering, with his head turned away from the wall. Even in the dim light, it is obvious that he has been severely beaten. Both his eyes are bruised and swollen. His nose is caked in dried blood, as are the edges of his mouth. Because his shirt has been half torn off, we can see deep, dark bruises and red welts on much of his body.

‘Captain, look!’ says Mr Smith, his voice filled with alarm. He points at the Bosun’s feet. They are a swollen mess of burnt and blistered skin. Vivid red and blackish stripes crisscross the soles of his feet. ‘Them Dutchies have gone and tortured him, they have … with hot irons. They’ve branded his feet like a calf ’ide. That must have been the screams we ’eard. No wonder.’

The Captain kneels and cups Bosun Stevenson’s head in his hands, lifting him gently. ‘Harry, my dear friend, what they have done to you?’ he whispers.

The Captain takes off his sweat scarf, folds it and carefully places it under Bosun Stevenson’s head. Though barely conscious, the poor man tries to nod in gratitude. There is little else we can do for him as we have no medicine or food, only the bucket of rank water.

The Captain holds Bosun Stevenson’s hand and sits in brooding silence. Occasionally, Mr Smith pours a little water on Bosun Stevenson’s burnt feet. The rest of us sit along the wall, waiting for something to happen.

The sound of boots in unison echo on the path outside. The bolt lifts and the door creaks open. It is almost dark outside. A senior officer and two guards step in and stand in the gloom, their faces barely visible in the shadows. The guards’ white uniform pants are grubby, and their boots are scuffed and worn. The officer, unlike the lieutenant, though, is impeccably dressed, his boots polished, his tunic buttons shiny and done up to his neck. He obviously has a lackey to dress him and do all his work.

‘Captain Bowen,’ sneers the officer.

The Captain rises from where he sits on the floor beside poor Bosun Stevenson. He holds himself straight and then bows slightly, as befitting an officer meeting another of his class.

‘Commandant Vetter at your service,’ continues the officer, his English perfect and with hardly a trace of an accent. ‘Your reputation is well known along this coast, Captain, as indeed are your recent exploits.’

‘Commandant Vetter, you are too kind,’ he says. ‘But you must be misinformed. I am a humble sea trader, and one who needs to be about his business. As I’m sure you are aware in these modern times, commerce waits for no man.’

‘It seems our business interests have crossed, sir. I have been expecting to intercept a cargo from one of your countrymen, Captain Josiah Sims. It seems that Captain Sims and his crew are missing and his cargo has gone astray. A consignment of guns.’

Our Captain smiles politely. ‘Sir?’

‘I suspect that judging from the box of brand new Enfield rifles my men found in your dinghy, you may be able to shed some light on the matter, and perhaps on the fate of Captain Sims. Though his welfare is of little concern to me.’

‘Commandant, as I said, I need to be about my business and the hour is getting late.’

‘I am a most reasonable man, Captain,’ Commandant Vetter continues, his voice calm. ‘And I’m more than willing for you and your men to go free immediately, just as soon as I recover Captain Sims’ cargo. I cannot tell you how bitterly frustrated I was to find it had gone astray.’

‘I am sorry to disappoint you, Commandant, but that will not be possible,’ the Captain replies.

‘The truth is,’ says the Commandant. ‘You have no choice but to tell me where your ship is moored so I can collect the cargo. I am not a barbaric man. I am willing to wait a short while for you to reconsider.’ He nods toward the corner where Bosun Stevenson lies. ‘Your bosun was just as uncooperative. Even after some vigorous persuasion. Such loyalty in your men is to be commended.’

Mr Smith’s face creases with a dark frown.

‘Sir, you will forgive me, I’m sure, for speaking bluntly,’ says the Captain, surprisingly politely. ‘But since we have been guests in your delightful warehouse I cannot help but notice the smell of burnt and tortured flesh. Perhaps we have different thoughts as to the term barbaric. It is fortunate for you I found Bosun Stevenson still alive.

The Commandant snorts slightly in disbelief.

‘There will be no negotiation,’ says the Captain, his voice firm.

‘In that case, Captain, I will be forced to hang one of your men each hour and every hour, in the proper English fashion, until you reconsider my small request. I want those guns, and I’m prepared for you to pay the price, Captain. I will not hesitate, believe me.’ The Commandant shrugs his shoulders and turns his palms out as if being reasonable.

In the silence that follows, I hear Mr Smith suck in his breath.

‘Commandant, hear me now and hear me well,’ the Captain’s voice is cold and menacing. ‘You will not be hanging any of my men, now or ever.’ I wonder how he can sound so confident, considering we are locked in a prison with no obvious way of escape.

The Commandant bristles. ‘You appear to forget who the prisoner is here, my colonial colleague. You and your men are nothing but common criminals and enemies of our Kingdom,’ he snarls. ‘I’m sorry to disillusion you, Captain, but I most certainly will hang your men, starting with the boy right here by my feet.’ He gives me a kick as if I am a troublesome puppy.

Hang me? My stomach turns to mush. My mouth is dry, and as much as I want to protest, no sound comes from my lips.

‘That is not going to happen,’ declares the Captain.

The Commandant’s temper erupts at the Captain’s defiant stance. He lashes out his fist, hitting the Captain’s cheek and knocking him off balance. The Captain’s head snaps back. He bends forward as if to recover. Because I sit on the floor right near his feet, I have a good view of his face. Surprisingly, he winks at me. As he straightens, his hand comes up as quick as a flash. In it, he grips the thin black stiletto blade he keeps hidden in the rim of his right boot.

Before the soldiers can react, the Captain swings back on his heels, sweeping his hand in front of him as if flicking pebbles into a pond. The point of his blade slashes opens the forearm of the guard on his left. His blue sleeve instantly turns dark. The guard looks down in surprise and lets out a scream like a banshee. Before the other guard even understands, the Captain swings his boot straight into the man’s groin with all the force of a long kick for goal. The man goes down with a howl of pain and surprise. As the guards’ guns clatter to the earth floor, the point of the Captain’s blade comes to rest under the Commandant’s chin. His eyes bulge at the sudden and unexpected action.

‘No one has ever tortured one of my men and lived to boast about it,’ whispers the Captain in a voice so low that only those very close can hear him. It is as if the Grim Reaper himself has spoken. ‘And you are not about to be the first. Like me, Vetter, your reputation precedes you. You are far too keen on the firing squad from all reports. You can shoot every single damn Dutchman for all I care and don’t stop when you get to your King. But when you start on prisoners, like I suspect happened earlier today, you should remember Matthew 26:52. I am not an overly religious man, but I keep that section of the King James Bible in mind: “All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword”.’

The Commandant’s eyes are wide with terror, and I see his trousers darken at the front as he wets himself.

‘No doubt I too will go the way of the sword for my sins,’ continues the Captain. ‘But I am hopeful it may not be for some time yet. The last name you will hear before I send your soul to Hell will not be mine, but that of Harold Fletcher Stevenson, Master Mariner, one of the finest men alive. A decent man. Unlike you, you miserable maggot, who has no understanding of what decency even means. The Devil take you, you foul excuse for a man.’

I see only the slightest movement of the Captain’s hand as he slides the knife up and in under the commandant’s chin. Vetter’s legs buckle, and he crumples to the floor. A thin trickle of blood from under his chin stains the clean white collar at his neck.

‘Nobody harms my crew,’ repeats the Captain, retrieving his blade. ‘Nobody.’

ESCAPE

Mr Smith bends to pick up one of the fallen rifles and points it at the guards, who look dazed and in a lot of pain. He waves them towards the corner. ‘Sit! But one word until we are well clear, and I’ll be back to gut youse both like a couple of saltwater trout. Understand?’ he orders.

I imagine the guards do not understand, but from the tone of Mr Smith’s voice, it is more than clear what he means. I suddenly realise I have barely breathed at all in the last minutes, scarcely believing what has happened. There is no time to relax, though. We are still a long way from safety yet.

Mr Smith checks the load on the rifle and goes to the door. He calls out, ‘It’s dark enough outside. The soldiers are gathered over yonder. Having the time of their lives, sounds like. We can make a run for it.’

‘The wind, Mr Smith?’ asks the Captain. ‘Still nor-easterly?’

‘Afraid so. At least fifteen knots.’

‘Then it looks as if we’ll have to go by foot,’ he replies. ‘Before we do, Briggs, can you get to the waterfront and create some confusion. Give then something better to do than chase after us.’

Briggs expertly twists the bayonet from the end of the rifle and slides it into his belt. ‘Just in case,’ he says, before he slips out, keeping close to the walls and the darkest places.

He is back within ten minutes, looking puffed but pleased with himself.

‘There’s no one about down there, so I let all their boats go, Captain. Cut the mooring on every one. With this wind, it should be a right mad dog’s breakfast in the harbour before too long. Beached. Banged into each other. Then I set one alight. Ha! That’ll keep them all busy for hours. Boats burn so fierce. And with this wind, it’ll be a right old bonfire in no time.’

The Captain grins. ‘I imagine if we head back through the town and up the hill, we can then follow the coast. It’s a dark enough night, so we should get a distance between us before anyone notices. Though I suspect that maggot, Vetter, was the only one interested,’ he adds as he looks over at the dead body.

‘Grab his boots will you, boy. Bosun Stevenson might need a decent pair as his feet recover.’

As I go to haul off Vetter’s boots, he adds, ‘And see if he has any keys on him. We may as well unlock those three unfortunates chained up outside. I don’t like their chances of surviving otherwise.’

‘Bosun Stevenson?’ asks Mr Smith.

‘Help me with him, men. Careful, mind you, he’s well hurt,’ replies the Captain.

The Captain carries Bosun Stevenson on his back until we reach the last houses. In the darkness, we see not a soul. Further back, at the harbour, the glow of rapidly spreading fire lights up the sky.

At the edge of the village, we take a batik sheet from a clothesline. When we are well clear of the town, Briggs uses his bayonet to cut down two bamboos and fashion a stretcher for poor Bosun Stevenson. From then on, the rest of us take turns in carrying a corner each. He drifts in and out of consciousness, moaning quietly in the times he comes awake and can feel the pain.

A narrow track runs along the edge of the jungle. We are surrounded by thick vegetation and vines and dank, stagnant creek beds filled with mosquitos and leeches. Thick tree roots trip us up and we slide on fallen leaves made slippery by the damp ground. Both my knees are soon grazed and my cheek cut open by an overhanging prickle bush. The thorn is as sharp as a razor and I can feel blood trickling down my face from a deep scratch under my left eye. I try ignoring it as there is not much I can do about it at present, other than hold my sleeve against the wound to try to slow the bleeding. It sure hurts, though, worse than the time I kicked off my toenail.

Around midnight, we stop in the ruins of an ancient stone temple on the side of a hill that slopes down to the coast. Most of the roof is missing, replaced by the branches of a tree that have spread upwards and destroyed the timbers and tiles that were there originally. The floor of the temple is thick with creeper, but the four walls keep out the worst of the wind.

Mr Smith builds a fire using sticks and gunpowder that he gets by prying the lead from a cartridge in the guard’s rifle. The flames flare brightly and quickly turn into a crackling heat.

‘Here,’ he says. ‘Look at these.’ Along the way, he has somehow managed to spear several chooks with his bayonet. We roast them just like game birds, not even plucking them first. As soon as they are half-cooked, we rip them apart like men who have never seen food in their lives and devour the white meat in a few hungry bites.

‘Sam Chi never cooked a meal as good as this one,’ laughs Mr Cord, before taking another bite of his skinny drumstick.

We rest and leave again an hour later, still following the narrow track that runs along the coast. Luckily, the jungle here proves to be sparse for most of the rest of the journey, though travelling in the dark means we all end up scratched and cut and with our clothes torn.

Just before dawn, with the barest of light reflecting from the sea, I spy a steep valley ahead. The sound of running water, like a small waterfall, comes from below. We have walked far enough for it to be the right river, but we cannot be sure without the map we left in the dinghy. I am ahead of the others at the time, as those carrying Bosun Stevenson make slow progress. Mr Smith and Briggs with the rifles bring up the rear, just in case anyone is following us.

The riverbank looks too steep to descend, so I turn back towards the coast and edge my way along, careful not to trip and tumble down the slope. The sound of waves crashes louder than I expect, so I stop and try to guess how far away they are. I catch a quick glimpse of the red glow of a pipe about a hundred yards ahead.

Someone is on sentry duty, half-hidden behind a pile of rocks high on the cliff’s edge.

‘Dragon!’ I call out. ‘It’s me, Red, and the Captain.’ I am so relieved it never occurs to me until the words are coming out of my mouth, that it could just as easily be a Dutch sentry waiting for our return. Won’t I feel like a complete idiot when they start shooting at me?

Luckily, the familiar figure of Teuku appears against the sky.

‘It’s me. Don’t shoot!’ I call again, noticing him holding a rifle.

‘Red,’ he calls back, sounding almost happy. ‘We had mostly written you off as deaduns. What’s all the blood on your face? Are you wounded?’

‘Not me,’ I reply feeling the painful gash under my eye. ‘The Bosun. He’s hurt bad, really bad.’

Getting Bosun Stevenson’s stretcher down the track to the riverbank proves difficult without hurting him more. Several times he lets out a muffled cry, trying not to scream out loud. Four men from the ship scramble up the cliff to help. Within an hour, though, the men reach the water’s edge and carry him into the house.

Sam Chi waits with the old table cleared and ready. On it is his special box of potions, salves and elixirs, and his canvas wrap of knives.

‘Now, what’ve them Dutchies been up to on your poor hide?’ Sam Chi looks him over and then takes a deep breath, sucking his teeth. ‘It doesn’t seem right. Bosun Stevenson, who never says a bad word about anyone, to be beaten and branded like an animal. And a man of God too. That’s just not right. The fellow who did this?’ he asks.

‘Oh, ’e paid for it, sure enough,’ replies Mr Smith, with an almost sinister smile. ‘’e was well rewarded for ’is evil efforts.’

Sam Chi smiles wickedly, understanding completely. ‘The wind’s not changed, but we need to be ready to leave here in case it does, so I had better get you looked after, eh, Bosun. We don’t want to have to leave you behind,’ he says.

Bosun Stevenson sighs. There is no danger at all of him being left behind, not in a million years.

I wonder what is in store for us, though. As soon as the Dutch forces discover Commander Vetter’s lifeless body in the warehouse and their prisoners missing, there is going to be a massive manhunt, of that I’m certain. I just wish the wind would change so we can get out of this enclosed cove as soon as possible.

ALL NORMAL

‘The wind’s still blowing onshore Captain, I might need some men to help me scout for food again,’ says Sam Chi, a few days later. ‘Some good succulent pork, I’m thinking, and a few chooks.’ He ladles out a big, sloppy lump of white goo. ‘Perhaps we should look inland? Away from the coast this time?’

‘This is a Muslim country. I don’t like your chances of finding any pigs,’ says the Captain.

‘Just as long as you don’t try and feed us them damn scorpions they eat, or them snails or big cockroaches. Disgusting,’ says Mr Cord.. And don’t bring back any of that stewed up black bean muck they eat out here, either. Give me good old cheddar any day. Even week-old horse meat. Anything but that.’

‘There’s always coconuts if all else fails. But fresh meat is always good. I’ve seen plenty of oysters on the rocks yonder too, and crabs,’ says Sam Chi. ‘So we won’t starve. And I’ve put out those lobster pots from the hut.’

‘Maybe you could find some of that rice wine we hear so much about. Remember all them firkins on our boat is filled with seawater,’ says Mr Cord, hopefully.

‘Who can forget?’ laughs the Captain. ‘But that has set me to thinking, Mr Smith. ‘We seem to have inherited a cargo of guns from Captain Sims, the late, lamented old canker, and we have a hold full of expensive firkins that need refilling. I’m thinking a trade. There’s a good old civil war going on hereabouts, and I’m sure the local rebels could use some straight-shooting Martini-Henrys.’

Mr Cord looks a little worried. He coughs.

‘Mr Cord, you have concerns? Pray, enlighten us.’

‘It’s them Dutch,’ he says, slowly. ‘They are going to be like bears with sore heads looking for us. First the frigate wrecked and then their Commandant killed. Wouldn’t we be safer just getting the hell out of these godforsaken waters and hightailing it for home?’

‘A lot of angry forces after us? Nothing much has changed from the usual state of affairs, then,’ laughs the Captain. ‘All normal. We chance our necks being stretched every single day.’

‘I am just saying,’ says Mr Cord, sheepishly.

‘You want me to come to your house with you when you tell Mrs Cord why we’ve returned home empty-handed?’ asks the Captain, a little sarcastically, but still good humoured. ‘Hold your hand while you do? I’ve seen Mrs Cord’s fearsome temper unleashed. It’s worse than yours. It’s worse than mine, come to that.’

Mr Cord sighs, imagining his reception at home. ‘No, you are right, let’s do it. Anything’d be better than the wrath of my bride, even Admiral Edmund Fremantle’s whole China Station fleet hot up our tails.’

‘We’re all agreed then?’ asks the Captain. Everyone murmurs or nods.

The Captain takes a piece of charcoal from the edge of the fireplace and draws a map on the table. It takes only a minute or so. In the centre, he writes Andaman Sea. Even the name sounds sinister. Right in the centre of the map looms Sumatra, with Aceh at the northern tip beside a worrying looking stain.

‘Now do any of you gentlemen know the coast up that way? Anything about where we can find these rebels? Someone must know, this war has been going on for nigh on a dozen years.’

‘I’m from the south. I’ve not been that far north,’ says Teuku.

Everyone else remains silent.

The sea in this monsoon season is notorious for massive storms. It is the graveyard of thousands of ships and countless seamen. I say a quick prayer to the overworked Saint Brendan the Navigator, patron saint of sailors and fishermen in peril on the sea, hoping that I am not destined soon to be one of them. I don’t think, however, that Saint Brendan’s hearing is all that good.

I have noticed previously that, other than the Bosun, none of the crew seem particularly religious, but they are all intensely superstitious. They call on all manner of saints, good luck charms and even heathen gods when a situation looks even slightly perilous. I wonder if we will soon need all the favours of Saint Brendan, even to face just the next day.

STORM AT SEA

The Captain must have been out early. He swings open the blue door of the old house and yells, ‘The holiday is over men. Off we go. The wind’s finally changed. We’ve no time to waste. Mr Cord, do you think you can steer us out of this cove as Bosun Stevenson is still indisposed?’

‘Ah, Captain. I had a good few years on the Hispaniola as helmsman, back in my day, and she was like an overgrown bathtub to steer. Handle that old scow, and you can handle anything.’

True to his word, using just the jibs and reefed mainsail until the Dragon is clear of the riverbanks, Mr Cord guides the Dragon out into the open sea, taking just a few minutes and using a bare minimum of movement on the helm. Once in the open sea, he points the bow northwards. Moments later, Rowdy hoists the mainsail. It flaps noisily for a few seconds but soon catches the wind and stretches taut.

It looks as if Saint Brendan has decided not to favour us on this next part of the voyage. We have only just sighted some low-lying volcanic rocks washed with surf off our port bow when the breeze changes dramatically. Even the swarms of seabirds keep low as if they know what is ahead. The wide-open Andaman Sea leads into the endless and darkly terrifying and mysterious Bay of Bengal.

‘Captain!’ calls Mr Cord. ‘If you would be so …’ He points to the horizon dead ahead.

The Captain does not hesitate. ‘All hands!’ he yells.

Teuku and I stand at the starboard rail near the stern trying to keep out of the way, as the crew race to their positions. They seem quicker than usual.

Ominous clouds as dark and dismal as wet tar race across the heavens, billow skywards and threaten our way forward, or even our very existence, it suddenly seems. The wind grows cooler and stronger with every minute, and the swell opens wider and deeper, so the Dragon’s typical sleek motion gives way to lurching and shuddering. Waves crash against the bow and then splash over the deck in rivers of cold white foam. A sudden squall blows against my face.

Captain Bowen is struggling to pull on his coat. He looks about again, taking in the sea, the sails, and the crew. ‘You two!’ he calls to Teuku and me. ‘Get yourselves oilskins and get roped up. Tie yourselves on. Now!’

We do not need telling twice, and immediately search out our oiled coats and ropes to tether ourselves to the rail.

‘The wind is shifting dead ahead, Captain,’ says Mr Cord. ‘We need to get well clear of the coast as quick as we can. It’ll have to be nor-west tack, I’m afraid, away from where we want to head.’

I suppose we could turn and run for home with the wind behind us, but that does not seem to be an option.

The Captain just nods in agreement.

Mr Cord yells, ‘Ready to go about. In ten, get a move on, nine, and eight … About!’

I duck instinctively as the boom swings over, even though I know I am short enough for it to pass over my head. The jibs flap wildly before the forward hands haul them across and pull in the sheets. They trim the sails for the new tack.

‘Mr Smith, help Mr Cord on the wheel. Boy, you can fill in for him at the boom!’ yells the Captain.

Rowdy, one of the mainsail men, has the job of hauling on the sheets that ran through a series of pulleys to let the boom in and out, depending on the wind strength and direction. He has arms and shoulders to suit. The men all call him Rowdy, on account of he hardly ever says a thing. A surly cove with permanently half-closed eyelids and more scars on him than an old alley cat, he just grunts and shrugs when I move over to help him. There is nothing for me to do for the moment. I stand with my face turned away from the spray that continually splashes over the bow, feeling more than a little apprehensive at the upcoming storm, but also excited.

MR CORD

Rowdy holds the end of the sheet in his right hand with the rope looped around a belaying pin, ready to let it go. A responsible job, it needs quick reflexes. If he fails to release the sheet at the correct instant, the Dragon could easily rip its mast clean out, or even worse, capsize and sink. Often, hauling the sheet back in against a strong wind takes at least two men, and sometimes three, but Rowdy looks like he can handle it by himself, even in a blow like this one.

We are on a different tack within moments, and the Dragon quickly gathers speed away from the rocky island. As she does so, bigger waves loom up like dark spectres and just as frightening, and crash over the foredeck. Despite my oilskin, I am soaked to the skin.

Soon, the sea and the sky meld into one dark curtain of water. The rain flies in sideways, stinging my cheeks, and the roar of the wind makes it almost impossible to hear.

‘Boy,’ says Rowdy, his voice nearly carried away by the wind. ‘When the Captain calls, you hold this sheet. Watch them little ripples on the water about a hundred yards over there. See them change colour? Get darker? That means a bigger gust of wind a-coming. When it gets close, you get ready to let out the sail. Not too much, just enough so we don’t snap the stick, or go and turn turtle.’ It is the most I have heard him say in all my time on board.

About five minutes later, the Captain gives the call. ‘Reef the main!’ he yells. ‘One-third.’

I take hold of the rough, thick sheet as Rowdy passes it to me. I brace myself. As I do so, he and two other men scuttle up the ratlines to unhitch a tangled sheet to haul down some of the canvas.

‘Ease it out a little, boy!’ calls the Captain.

I lift the sheet from the cleat to loosen it and cry out in shock at the sudden force. Under the wrench of the wind, about a foot of rough manila rope rips clean through my clenched hand. It tears the skin from my fingers before I manage to jam the rope back around the belaying pin. Stinging pain rushes up my arm. Mr Smith looks at me and winks, but he does not say anything. If I cry like a baby, it will not be obvious because of all the water surging across the deck and splashing over me.

We beat against the wind for four endless hours, the boat tossing about like a cork. Time after time, the bow of the Dragon rises on a wave. It teeters on the very edge as if it is about to topple head first straight to the bottom, then slides back and crashes into another wave, jarring every timber in her hull.

Mr Smith and Mr Cord fight hard against the wheel, all the time trying to prevent the boat from broaching or floundering and sinking, until exhaustion and the howling rain have sapped their strength.

Eventually, the Captain notices my hand. It will not stop bleeding.

‘Get below, boy, and see the cook. Get that bandaged before you bleed all out.’

At the top of the steps that lead below to the galley, I struggle to untie the rope around my waist with my good hand.

Sam Chi is the only person on board with nothing to do. Normally, he is flat out preparing and cooking all the meals for a dozen hands, but with the storm tossing the boat about, his stove has been extinguished. He cannot even make a pot of tea, though the men are in desperate need.

Sam Chi immediately sees the blood on my clothes and guesses why I have been sent below. He pulls a face of sympathy and smiles at me. ‘Patched up a few of these in my time, I have. Stings like a good’n, I’m betting.’

‘Worse,’ I grimace. In spite of the pain, I am glad to be out of the howling wind and rain for a few minutes while he searches about for the medicine box. With the boat pitching about so much, below decks looks like a lunatic has run amuck.

Eventually, the cook finds a bottle of vinegar. He pulls the cork from the bottle with his teeth. ‘You think it hurts now? Wait until I wash it with this.’

I nearly die there and then. Sting? It would have been less painful if he had chopped my hand off at the wrist. I close my eyes tight, bite my lip and turn my head away so Sam Chi cannot see my tears. I nearly choke as sudden sickness overwhelms me. I try to stifle a sob, but it still comes out.

‘I warned you,’ laughs Sam Chi, this time unsympathetically as he bandages my wound.

I gird my loins, climb back up the steps, and reluctantly poke my head out again into the elements. The sky has grown even darker, and I am sure the waves are larger though that can’t be possible as they were already massive beyond measure.

‘Tie yourself on again, boy!’ shouts the Captain from beside the binnacle, his voice barely heard over the roar, as another wall of water surges across the deck.

Mr Cord, who has been working the helm, suddenly loses his footing. His feet shoot out from under him, and, with a surprised cry, he scoots down the length of the deck on his back as if he is sliding down a wave. The loop in his life-line is not tight, and as it reaches its length, he jolts to a stop. The loop jerks up under his ribs, like a noose around a convict’s neck as he falls through a gallows. A sharp, double crack sounds as at least two of Mr Cord’s ribs break.

‘Ah!’ he howls at the sudden pain. Gasping for breath, unable to move, he lies sprawled on his back, his face contorted. Another wave surges over him, and he gasps as the rope pulls even tighter around his ribs.

I am closest. ‘Mr Cord!’ I yell in panic. I reach down and try pulling the rope free, but my bandaged hand makes it impossible. The manila rope is wet, the knot has strained too tight, and Mr Cord weighs too much for me to make any difference. I look up in frustration, mad at myself for being so hopeless. There is no one close to help.

‘Red!’

The Captain holds his knife up for me to see, the blade between his fingers. I nod, understanding what he means. He throws it towards me. It hits the deck less than a foot from my right hand, the tip of the blade sticking into the wood planking like a dart into a bulls-eye. The bone handle still quivers with the force of the throw as I reach for it. I jerk it free and saw through the rope around Mr Cord’s chest. The knife is so sharp that it takes only a few cuts.

Mr Cord groans at the sudden relief and tries lifting himself up onto his elbow, but the pain is obviously too extreme. He collapses back to the deck. I too felt like moaning as the bandage on my hand is now so soaked that the salt water stings the raw skin, even worse than the vinegar. It feels like I hold a hot coal in my palm.

‘Oh, God, I’m done for Captain,’ cries Mr Cord, his face screwed up in agony. The Captain and the cook struggle against the wind, the surging water and the heaving motion of the boat to help him. Just as they reach him, another huge wave crashes over the side. It throws me to the deck, and I land with a thud, but it also lifts Mr Cord as if he weighs nothing. ‘Ahhh!’ he cries as the wave flings him overboard into the boiling sea. He lets out a final cry and disappears.

I do not know what to do. I scramble to my feet and look about stupidly. ‘Mr Cord!’ I yell in desperation. His head reappears just near the stern. He tries waving one arm but then slips beneath the water. Ignoring the pain in my hand, I slice open the bowline knot around my waist with Captain’s blade and, without even thinking, fling myself over the rail into the sea. It isn’t a dive but more of a jump. Water immediately covers me, but I splutter back to the surface searching desperately for Mr Cord. I swim a few strokes and dive, but cannot see him at all. I dive again and again finding only the darkness of the sea and the white, wind-battered waves. ‘Oh, Mr Cord,’ I cry, feeling utterly hopeless.

All the energy drains out of me as it slowly dawns on me that I am alone in the sea, miles from any coast. I am in the middle of a roaring typhoon and probably actually facing the last few moments of my life. Instead of panic, as I would have expected, a strange calmness comes over me, almost as if I float above the sea while looking down at myself about to drown. What would be best — to keep treading water until I get too tired to continue or simply let go now and end it as quickly as possible? No, I decide, suddenly angry, if the Devil wants me, he can damn well come and get me.

It is not the Devil who gets me, but Mr Smith. I feel a hand on my collar and myself being hauled up from the sea and into the Dragon’s dinghy.

‘Mr Cord?’ I ask as soon as I get my breath.

Rowdy, holding the tiller, shakes his head, his face filled with grief. This time, words are not necessary. I look at the other men rowing the dinghy, desperate to see any hope in their faces, even a glimmer, but they all turn away avoiding my eye.

I look out over the gunwale, hoping against hope I might still see Mr Cord out in the rain somewhere waving to me. Mr Cord isn’t my friend like Mr Smith, but he is a good bloke and does not deserve to die like this. And what will happen to poor Mrs Cord and his children back in Broome? How will I face them at school? Will they blame me when they find out what happened to their father?

The crew fight to row the dinghy back to the Dragon, their oars dipping in and out rhythmically as the weather lashes them relentlessly. The boat gets blown back for every yard it inches forward. Eventually, we get close enough and a rope spirals out from the Dragon’s deck. The Captain reaches down over the side and pulls me up from the ladder. His face is like thunder and he does not say a word.

At dawn, even though the wind still blows fiercely, the swell drops and the Dragon can settle into a rhythm and make headway. The calmer motion allows the cook to relight his stove and make hot tea. That first cup tastes better than anything I’ve ever drunk. But the gloom that settles over the crew at the loss of Mr Cord matches the grey clouds and endless rain. The men barely speak unless they have to. The Captain stands at the stern rail staring out into the distance, the rain running down his face like a thousand tears. Eventually, Sam Chi sends me to fetch him.

‘Captain,’ I ask. ‘If I hadn’t cut Mr Cord’s safety rope …’

‘You tried to save him,’ the Captain growls. ‘You nearly died trying. We’ll hear no more about it.’

As I walk away and down the steps to the crew deck, though, I hear him mutter, ‘You earned your spurs this day, Red.’

WHY WAS I SOLD?

The worst of the storm has passed by the next morning and the weather grows warmer and more humid as we head north. By the fourth day, below decks is too hot for sleeping, so I go up on deck, lean on the rail and watch the water and sky. I cannot stop thoughts of poor Mr Cord crowding into my mind. I have never felt so bad in all my life.

Sam Chi has given me one of his old pipes and a pouch of tobacco, but I am hopeless at making it work. I start and give up smoking on the same day, but I keep the pipe gripped between my teeth, so I look older, I hope.

Steps sound behind me, and I am surprised to see the Captain. He too leans against the rail and begins playing with his pipe, cleaning it out with the end of his wicked knife.

‘You seem to have settled in,’ he says after a few minutes.

I look at him. More has happened to me in the past few weeks than in my entire life. ‘Yes, sir,’ I reply.

‘Men treating you well, Red?’ he asks.

This is only the second time he has called me by my name. I nod. The men have been surprisingly kind, especially the last few days, since Mr Cord’s tragic accident.

‘Food to your liking?’

I nod again. The grub on ships is notoriously bad, all rock-hard biscuits and salted pork and weevils. At the Curse, sailors were always moaning about the food on board their ships. I can’t say I enjoyed the monkey stew or python steaks, but I have been surprised at how good the food is otherwise. And Sam Chi has been giving me bigger portions.

‘Red, what are your letters like?’ the Captain asks as we watch the seagulls swoop about over the stern.

‘I go, er, went, to the Broome School, sir. And I read a lot.’

‘I’ve noticed. An awful lot. That Swiss Family Robinson I see you reading, good book?’

‘Yes, it’s great. Really exciting,’ I reply.

‘And your numbers?’ he adds.

‘At school I’ve never been beaten for getting my numbers wrong,’ I say proudly. I do not add I have been beaten for fighting, for being a truant, for talking too much, and for plenty of other offences. I wonder where this conversation is going.

‘Good, good. I need a secretary to keep the ship’s books. Numbers bore me rigid. Perhaps you can help.’

‘I can try, Captain. I help Ma with the accounts for the Curse.’

‘Come to my cabin in the morning, fourth watch, and I’ll show you what needs doing.’

‘But what about my work, sir? I’m rostered to help with the deck caulking tomorrow.’

The Captain smiles. ‘I was still the Captain last time I looked in my shaving mirror. Don’t you worry about the roster.’

We continue standing at the rail with only the creak of the timbers and the occasional slap of the canvas to break the silence. After a few minutes, he knocks his pipe empty on the rail, seemingly satisfied.

Next morning, I tell Teuku about my new position as Captain’s Secretary, and he is less than happy with me escaping the caulking.

‘Teacher’s pet,’ he mutters and then slinks off, murmuring to himself.

After a whole day and half the night sitting at the Captain’s desk, I begin to wonder if I have the best deal after all. Although the windows are open, it is stifling hot in the cabin. I can also see that the Captain obviously has no love for figures, for the accounts are well out of date and need considerable work.

It is late and I have nearly finished, though my inkwell needs filling, again. I must have refilled it at least a dozen times. I am bone weary and bored, and my hand still throbs with a dull pain from the rope burn. Overhead, the dim lantern swings in time to the splashing waves outside, and all around, the ship’s timbers creak as we rock in the light swell.

‘Captain, sir?’ I ask, pushing back my chair, my eyes tired from adding up row after row of numbers, mostly in the outgoing column it seems of late.

‘What is it?’ he says, looking as tired as I feel.

‘Sir,’ I repeat. I hesitate. ‘Do you know … is my mother short of money?’ I finally blurt out.

The Captain seems to know Ma pretty well from his visits to the Curse. Sometimes I wonder just how well he really knows her, seeing them laughing and flirting together.

‘Short of money?’ he laughs. ‘Your mother would have to be one of the wealthiest women on the west coast, Red. That hotel of hers pays better than a bank holdup.’

‘So then why did she sell me? I saw you hand her a stack of gold coins,’ I say.

He laughs. ‘You weren’t sold, Red. Boys aren’t sold, anymore. That money wasn’t for you or your services,’ he says. ‘That was a, er, an inducement for her to pass onto Blude, the commander of the Customs House in Broome. So he’ll be somewhere else when we get back from this voyage with a hold full of whatever we manage to obtain. We are just ensuring that the old crook turns a blind eye.’

‘Commander Blude would do that?’ I ask, shocked.

‘You’d be surprised what a bag of sovereigns can buy. Especially amongst the officials.’

‘The officials? What, even the magistrate?’ I ask, even more astonished.

‘Especially the magistrate.’

‘But why am I here, then?’ I ask. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, sir, I enjoy … I appreciate …’

‘You’re here because Father Jameson won’t allow you to be enrolled in his school on account of your mother’s …’ he hesitates. ‘Er … business dealings.’

‘The hotel?’ I reply. ‘What’s wrong with the Curse?’

‘Well, no, not the actual bar, more like the rooms out the back that your mother rents to the … ladies, if you see what I mean.’ The Captain seems uncomfortable.

‘I don’t understand,’ I say.

‘There are rumours. Some of the town’s more respectable matrons take objection to Meg and Sally and the others not being married and … having jobs in a hotel where their husbands … er, spend all their free time. But then again, the snooty empresses object to all sorts of imagined sins. Spitting in the streets, swearing, drinking on Sundays, gambling. All the enjoyable things of life.’

‘Oh,’ I say, feeling a bit naïve.

He coughs. ‘Anyway,’ he continues, quickly changing the subject. ‘As you probably know, Father Jameson’s church has opened a brand new school in Perth, in the main street, Saint George’s Terrace. Christian Brothers it’s called. It’s a proper school for merchants’ and farmers’ sons, not just your Broome school house, full of local louts and ruffians like you, eh, Red.’ He smiles, so I know he is not too serious. ‘But you need a recommendation from your local priest to be enrolled.

‘In any case,’ he continues. ‘Your mother thinks you are at an age when you need to be away from the Curse for a spell. She thought it might also be a good idea if you and I got to know each other a little better. Until I get the Father, the two-faced hypocrite, to change his mind and write the letter and get you enrolled.’

‘But I don’t want to go away to school,’ I protest. ‘I want to sail the seas and be just like you, Captain, and own my own schooner, like the Black Dragon. I’ve even picked out a name for mine.’

‘The Red Dragon?’ he suggests.

‘How did you guess?’ I ask, genuinely surprised.

We sit in silence for a few more minutes, the Captain draining the last of his whisky.

‘What if you can’t get him to change his mind?’ I ask, hopefully.

The Captain looks back at me and smiles knowingly. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Red, but do you really think I’m going to have any trouble on that score? It’s boarding school for you. It’s just a matter of me getting around to organising it.’

I shrug, not knowing what to say, but not liking the sound of the Christian Brothers’ School one little bit. The Captain looks back at me and smiles wickedly. ‘Providing we both avoid the hempen jig in the meantime that is. The end of that long drop can be a real killer. Maybe even worse than being stuck in a schoolroom, though only by a small measure, I’m thinking.’

SACRIFICIAL GOATS

‘Ahoy!’ yells Teuku from the crow’s nest. ‘Off the port bow.’

We all immediately turn to look.

The breeze is up and steady again so the Dragon cuts through the water like a hot knife through lard. Captain Bowen stands at the helm, relaxed and evidently satisfied by the ship’s performance.

Mr Smith raises his glass and adjusts the focus. ‘I don’t like the looks of this, Cap’n,’ he says, his brow creasing in concern. ‘A miserable scurvy pirate, from the cut of ’er. Three masts. Chinese. A fightin’ junk, I’d guess. Too high in the water for a merchant. Out of Lumut over in Malaya, I’d gamble, from the look,’ his voice a little more urgent than usual. ‘I’ve seen their sort before in these waters. Lumut is a right dragon’s lair of piracy. The whole town lives off the evil trade.’

‘She’s a day or so from home then,’ says the Captain. ‘And so much for the British Navy’s boast of wiping their kind from the face of the earth.’

‘I don’t like the look of it, Cap’n,’ repeats Mr Smith.

‘I agree,’ he replies. ‘All hands! All hands, prepare for battle!’ he yells.

The men rush to their regular places on the main deck. With Teuku at the masthead, it is up to me to bring all the gunpowder bags topside for the weapons. Even though the tail end of the typhoon blows strongly, I am soon sweating like a pig from the weight of the sacks on my shoulders and the steep stairs.

‘They’ll be itching for an easy score,’ calls the Captain. ‘But we’ll soon make the scum regret it, won’t we, men? They are going to wish they had never put to sea, curse their damn eyes.’

I am surprised at how cheerful the men all seem, considering that within the hour they will probably be in the thick of battle with cannon fire and bullets flying all about. There are no hymns this time but a sense of mounting excitement, perhaps because this looks more like a fair fight than that with the enormous frigate. Me, I just feel sick to my stomach with nerves, though unexpectedly, this time, just a little bit excited as well.

As it draws closer, I see the pirate ship is indeed a Chinese junk with a high stern. The hull is stained and her three sails are a filthy faded red, but they are well set and held in shape with numerous horizontal sail battens. She leaps along at a fair clip, the bow cutting through the growing swell with ease on a starboard tack. I am a little disappointed, though, not to see a black skull and crossbones flying from her masthead.

The gap between us is closing quickly and before too long, I can see the crew on deck. There are about twenty of them. Most wear colourful clothes, and bandanas wrapped around their heads, and they all have daggers and cutlasses in their belts. Several have shaved heads with long ponytails down their backs. Like our crew, they are all barefooted, hard-looking men.

‘I knows this lot,’ says Mr Smith, talking to himself.

‘Mr Smith?’ asks the Captain.

‘Cap’n. See that ugly brute in the yellow vest at the rail? ’e’s the master. Know’d by everyone as Genghis ’e is. As nasty a piece of work as ever lived. ’e worked for Chang Pao for a while, back in the old days, but even Pao couldn’t handle Genghis’s savagery. Up to ’is neck in blood, ’e was. The man’s a single ’anded abattoir.’

The Captain sighs slightly and shields his eyes with his hand. ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,’ he murmurs.

‘Sir?’ asks Mr Smith.

‘But when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger. Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.’ He smiles as if he knows something no one else does. ‘Just a little of my good friend Mr Shakespeare before battle.’

The Captain turns. ‘Briggs, can we have the dinghy over the side, if you please. And Mr Smith,’ the Captain continues, quietly. ‘The one with the dirty white headband? The helmsman? He’s your first mark. That Genghis character will be your second. Send him back to the Devil where he belongs. With my compliments. Take a couple of those new rifles, and a helper. Someone who can reload for you.’ He looks about and sees me standing close by. ‘You up for it, Red?’

‘Sir!’ I agree instantly, before realising I will be loading the guns from inside the dinghy, being towed behind our ship in a massive swell, while being fired on by murderous pirates intent on killing us all. Me and my big mouth.

‘They’ll take their chances, I’m guessing,’ the Captain says. ‘And come straight for us. We don’t look that powerful or as slippery as we really are from a distance, so we’ll let them get a bit too close. I’ll make sure they are in range of the dinghy on the first pass. We need a sacrificial goat to draw them in.’

A few minutes later, the Captain calls, ‘Over the rail with the both of you. We don’t have much time.’

It slowly dawns on me that the Captain actually means Mr Smith and me are the sacrificial goats. I can feel my heart thumping. I do not like that word ‘sacrificial’ one little bit. But is it fear or excitement that increases my heartbeat? As I climb down the ladder and hang there waiting for the dinghy to pull close enough for me to jump in, I feel strangely calm. I remember the Captain telling me that only fools are not frightened, but it is the brave who overcome their fear and fight on regardless. What am I, brave or just plain foolish? Everything around me seems crystal clear and more pronounced. The colours are brighter, the sea wider and the wind keener on my face. It is as if all my senses have burst into life at the same time.

‘Keep your ’ead down, Red,’ commands Mr Smith. We lie on the floor of the dinghy, him nearer the bow, our heads below the gunwale and half-covered with a canvas sail. The Captain does not want us seen until it is too late for the helmsman. The rope holding the dinghy’s bow plays out and jerks to a stop, leaving us bobbing about violently in the Dragon’s wake. I have to hang on tight to stop from being flung overboard.

Soon, the pirate ship and the Captain’s port tack are once more heading to cross. Mr Smith lifts his head slightly, slides the barrel of his rifle up and rests it on the gunwale. He slips a cartridge into the chamber on top of the gun and works the lever, cocking the mechanism.

On board the Dragon, I can see the Captain spinning the ship’s wheel. The pirate Genghis begins shifting tack as well, but then the Captain stops and lets the breeze carry the Dragon back to its original tack, leaving the pirate heading the wrong way for a full-on broadside. It has been a worthy trick.

Fooled, Genghis shouts out in rage, bellowing an order through his speaking trumpet. His forward gun, the only one in range, fires. Instantly, the stern of our ship explodes. A large corner of the Captain’s cabin is blown away. A shower of splintered timber and flying glass rockets towards our dinghy. Somehow, I duck my head quickly enough, but Mr Smith falls backwards, clutching his face with both hands, his head a mass of blood.

‘Mr Smith!’ I cry, scrambling to reach for him. A large gash on his forehead bleeds into his eyes and his right ear has been almost torn completely off. It hangs by a few shreds of skin and blood runs from the gaping wound down his neck and onto his shirt.

I look about desperately for some cloth to staunch the blood flow, then I pull my shirt off, bunch it up and push it against Mr Smith’s mangled ear. He pulls away in pain.

‘Red? Where are youse, boy?’ yells Mr Smith. He seems to recover his wits quicker that I can imagine. Quicker than I could have. If my ear had been hanging off as his is, I would be squealing like a stuck pig, or worse, crying like a wet baby.

‘I can’t see, boy. I can’t see nothin’. Youse’ll have to shoot for me!’ he yells. ‘We don’t have too long. In a few minutes, the pirate’ll change tack again. To the port. When ’e does, in the luff when the boom swings across, ya shoot the helmsman. Not too soon and before the ship swings. Not too late when the sails refill. Got it? Miss and we’ll all be done for. Hit ’im and their boat stalls dead.’

I nod and crawl back towards the bow of the dinghy, but it is difficult. With the waves throwing the dinghy about like a cork, it takes longer than I want as I have to hang on with one hand. Water sloshes at my knees and I have to hold the gun clear with my other hand to keep the rifle dry.

‘Remember Red, as she stalls ’eadin’ about. You got only a few seconds. Aim only at the ’elmsman, the one with the white ’eadband. If youse misses the first shot, then goes for a second and third, but youse ’as to ’it ’im. They won’t even ’ear the noise over the wind. Just remember what I taught ya.’

I am surprised Mr Smith can even think straight.

With a slap of the mainsail and banging of the rigging, the pirate ship begins swinging to starboard, away from us. The stern looms large and as the vessel starts to swing smoothly across, the helmsman’s back comes squarely on to me. He spins the ship’s wheel quickly. I sight down the barrel of the rifle trying to keep it level, but every time I get close, the dinghy lurches.

‘Now boy, now,’ says Mr Smith, quietly. ‘Breathe in, then out, then in and then ’olds ya breath, and squeeze. Don’t jerk the trigger, like I learnt you. Remember.’

Suddenly, the grubby white shirt fills my eye. It is all I can see down the end of the barrel. I squeeze the trigger back just as Mr Smith commanded. The hammer slams home, the gun roars and instantly fires, the black smoke immediately whipped away in the wind. I wipe the salt spray from my eyes and peer back to the stern.

The helmsman jerks and falls forward, letting go of the helm, just as the Captain wanted. He staggers backwards and, clutching vainly at the rail, topples overboard.

THE PIRATES

The pirate ship, now facing directly into the wind, its sails flapping uselessly, sits stalled, its stern and aft quarter facing the Dragon’s lined up guns. Over the roar of the wind and flapping of the sails, no one has heard the shot or looked back to see the helmsman missing.

From across the gap between us, I hear the Captain yell, ‘Gun crew, now! If you please.’

The Captain has the pirate ship right where he wants it, dead in the water and at such an angle its guns point away from the Dragon, useless. Ours are pointed at the stern of the vessel ready to blow the piratical scum all the way to kingdom come.

The gunners fire in a relay from Long Tom to the small swivelling stern-chasers mounted on the stern rail then back to number one again. Cannonballs, chain-shot and canister-shot thunder across the deck much like the sweep of a gigantic, white-hot scythe, only a thousand times louder and more deadly, chopping the crew down like bloodied wheat stalks. The noise and total devastation are unlike anything I have ever experienced.

Then, suddenly, silence falls. Even from down at sea level I can make out the gruesome scene up on the pirate deck. It reminds me of the slaughter yard at the back of Mr Tosser’s butcher shop in Broome on market day.

Not a single pirate is left. The pirate ship wallows, the shredded sails no longer any use, the masts leaning precariously. A minute or so later a wave washes over the deck, but the spray that runs down the sides looks pink, not white.

‘M-M-Mr Smith,’ I stammer, helplessly.

He has wiped the blood from his eyes and holds my bunched shirt against his head. He too stares towards the carnage, squinting through the dribbles of blood on his face and wincing in pain. ‘Sweet Jesus! It’s no wonder ’e’s called Black Bowen, but I’m a-thinkin’ Bloody Bowen might be more fittin’.’

‘I dunno, Mr Smith, looking at you.’ His shirt is splattered scarlet. ‘Bloody Smith more like at the moment.’

‘Aye, right enough.’

A few minutes later, the crew haul the dinghy back in alongside the Dragon. Rowdy climbs half down the ladder to help Mr Smith up and on board. ‘Good shot, Mr Smith,’ he says as they reach the deck.

‘’fraid not. T’is young Red ’ere what saved the day this time. ’e took the shot. I couldn’t see me ’ands in front of me.’ Even with all the spray and water in the dinghy, his face and clothes are still scarlet and splattered and he looks like one of Jack the Ripper’s particularly gruesome murder victims.

‘Well, Red, you surprise me, yet again,’ declares the Captain. He reaches down to help me with the last step on the ladder, almost pulling me up and onto the deck.

‘Captain,’ interrupts Sam Chi. ‘You’d better look there. She’s on fire, I’m thinking.’ A thin cloud of black smoke rises steadily from a hatchway in the centre of the pirate ship.

‘Damn,’ exclaims the Captain. ‘I’d love to see what’s in her strong box. Still, fire’s not a sailor’s friend.’ He shrugs as we all turned to look.

‘Let’s get us away from that damn scow. She’ll have a magazine jam-packed with gunpowder. Make all haste now.’

The Captain nods towards Briggs, who begins spinning the ship’s wheel as the men rush to adjust the sails.

The pirate ship explodes not ten minutes later, with the boom of a thunder clap that astounds me. She blows completely apart, shattering from end to end, sending debris hurtling through the air. The shock on the wind reaches us a brief second later, like a sudden kick to the chest.

‘Well, I’ll be stonkered! Look at that!’ yells Teuku standing up on the rail holding a shroud. He nearly topples overboard.

We all stand at the side rail watching as timber and a whole shipload of wreckage cascades back to the surface and scatters over a vast area, sending up white splashes like an enormous school of flying fish.

‘Double, double toil and trouble,’ says the Captain, staring at the flaming hull. ‘Fire burn and cauldron bubble. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf.’ He smiles slowly, a quiet look of satisfaction in his eyes.

‘The Navy as like would be paying a goodly reward for the head of that Genghis brigand,’ says Rowdy, breaking the silence.

‘Probably Rowdy, but finding his head may be a tad difficult now,’ replies the Captain. ‘Still, men,’ he says, grabbing me by the shoulder. ‘We live to fight another day. No small thanks to our Red here.’ He smiles widely and slaps me on the back. ‘Now clean yourself up.’

I smile and turn to go below and clean myself up. Mr Smith’s blood is all over me.

‘I think I might have been perfectly wrong about that little milksop,’ I hear him murmur to Mr Smith a few minutes later when he thinks I am out of earshot.

I feel a surge of pride at the Captain’s compliments, but the thought that I have actually shot someone, even if he was a murderous pirate, unsettles me. I know perfectly well that had I not done so, they would have murdered all of us, probably horribly and painfully, but it still doesn’t sit comfortably in my stomach. Most of the crew do not seem to care less that they have just wiped out twenty men in a hail of iron and blood and guts.

Back on deck, I go over to the hatch cover where Mr Smith sits on an upturned firkin as Sam Chi treats his wounds. I grimace nearly as much as Mr Smith does as the cook pulls out a kitchen knife from his belt and casually slices off the flap of skin holding Mr Smith’s ear to the side of his head. Without a word, Sam Chi flings the ear overboard and sets to stitching up the gash with a needle and tarred cotton.

Mr Smith’s face screws up in agony for a few moments as the broad sail needle pierces his skin and then again as the cook pulls each knot tight, closing the deep red gash on his head. He sways slightly like a drunkard. ‘A pox on them bandits, but this ’urts like the blazes,’ he exclaims, screwing his face up. ‘This’ll learn me to keep me ’ead down, eh boy? Still, the women goes for a man with scars. Ain’t that so Sam Chi? Youse knows all about women.’

‘In my experience it’s the women what give you the most scars,’ laughs Sam Chi. ‘I’ve stitched you up with good thread in fresh blood, so the chances of putrification are slight. You’ll live. At least, until the missus sees you again. Then I don’t like your chances.’

Mr Smith nods, then he reaches out and grabs my forearms. ‘Don’t youse worry, boy. It’ll pass soon enough,’ he says. ‘The sickness. Don’t worry overmuch about it. Them bandits wouldn’t have worried about sticking youse full of steel or roasting youse alive, just for the pure fun of it.’ He smiles sympathetically and then lets out a sharp, painful cry as the cook pulls the final stitch tight. ‘They got what they deserved. Ain’t that so Sam Chi?’

‘Too right, murderous swine.’

‘That’s enough entertainment for one day,’ calls the Captain, looking at the sky and feeling the wind on his face. ‘We have work to do. Nor’-west to Aceh we head again. And I want those men not on watch to go below and start patching up our poor sorry vessel. I hate to think of the state of my cabin, damn their eyes. And if they smashed any of my best claret I’ll …’ The Captain then smiles, remembering there is nothing more he can do now to the pirate crew.

Years ago, when I was young and the Captain first started visiting the Smuggler’s Curse, I thought all the men called him Black Bowen because of the clothes he wore. I realise now I could not have been more wrong. He dispatched the pirates to Hell with no more thought than if he was just swatting an annoying blowfly. Behind the generous nature and the warm smile he sometimes displays, there must be a heart as cold and as black as the deepest coal mine. I feel I still have a lot to learn about the ways of adults.

SUMATRA

The sweet smell of sunshine and over-ripe fruit wafts out from the land that we can just see in a heat haze on the horizon. After days of nothing but sea, salt and blazing sun, it seems almost unbelievable. I can feel the mood on board improve with each league that passes.

‘Fresh food by the time this day is out,’ declares Sam Chi, picking up the smell. ‘They have fruit by the cartload out here. The ground is thick with it.’

‘Pineapples would be good,’ says Bosun Stevenson, with enthusiasm. He is pale compared to the rest of us, who are now dark brown with the constant sunshine, but he seems a lot better. He is spending more and more time up on deck sitting in a chair borrowed from the Captain’s cabin, with his feet well padded and raised on a cushion.

‘Red, aloft with you, if you please,’ says the Captain. ‘And relieve Teuku on watch. Here, take my glass. I want to know when you spy a church tower. It should have a cross or a bell. It’ll probably be white-washed as well. The missionaries seem to like that style.’

I tuck the telescope in my belt and set off up the ratlines, hand-over-hand, towards the crow’s nest. As I climb, I realise how much easier it is now. I guess I must be getting stronger.

I spend just over an hour sitting on the crow’s nest platform, peering through the Captain’s telescope. It isn’t a church I first notice, but a dozen squat masts against a wooden jetty, and the low, coconut fibre houses of a fishing village on the water’s edge. Behind them, a hill rises steeply away from the coast. I adjust the telescope and can see a track that winds up from the houses to a church.

‘Captain!’ I cry. ‘Port, east-by-south-east. A village and a church.’

‘Well done, lad. An extra ship’s biscuit for you then,’ he yells back, laughing.

‘Do I really have to, Captain?’ I reply.

‘Get down from there, you cheeky blighter, before I tell Sam Chi you hate his cooking. Then you’ll know about it.’

‘Captain,’ asks Bosun Stevenson, a little later that morning. ‘I was thinkin’ earlier. I hope you don’t mind me asking, sir, but what do you want with a church? I’ve never known you to be a God-fearing man. I was under the impression that was my job on the Dragon.’

‘Oh, I fear him well enough, Bosun. Indeed, I fear him as much as any man. I’ve just no desire to meet with him face to face yet, and I’ve avoided that pleasure so far, no thanks to our Dutch friends or even our own Queen’s men,’ he laughs. ‘And a few jealous husbands. It’s not a church I need, more like the missionary inside it. The islands hereabouts are covered in damn missionaries. They have a massive spider’s web of connections all across the Straits. They mostly speak the lingo so they are the ones who know what is going on. Find me the local missionary and I’ll find out where the Dutch Army are, and most importantly of all, where the guerrillas are hiding out, so we can trade our hold full of guns for gold. Though, looking about at this miserable village, I suspect gold may be a little on the scarce side.’

‘And I thought for a minute there you were going all holy on us,’ laughs Bosun Stevenson.

‘Gorillas, Captain?’ I ask. ‘Like the big monkeys from Africa?’

The Captain chuckles. ‘Guerrillas, Red. Locals fighting the Dutch colonial government. Anyone who wants to try to poke those greedy crooks in the eye is a friend of mine. From what I’ve heard, the locals have bloodied Dutch forces good and proper just lately. Now let’s go and see what this village is really like. Mr Smith, prime the guns. Just in case. Bosun, at your call.’

‘Aye, Captain. Ready about!’ yells the Bosun. He looks up from his chair near the binnacle.

As they have done hundreds of times before, the men sprint to their positions. ‘About!’ Rowdy lets out the boom and Briggs spins the helm. The bow begins swinging to port, the sails flutter and collapse, the boom swings across as the jibs are hauled over, and the sails fill and billow again. It takes seconds. A wave carries the ship down into a small trough, as we ride it towards the shore.

‘Bosun,’ asks the Captain. ‘Would you have a Union flag in your locker? We don’t want these poor villagers thinking we are a warlord or a Dutch ship coming to do unspeakable things to them.’

‘No, we’ll do speakable things to them instead,’ laughs Bosun Stevenson.

‘Red, out on the bowsprit with you. Keep an eye out for reefs and rocks. This close in we can’t be too careful.’

I make my way to the bow of the Dragon and clamber out in the net that hangs below the long bowsprit that juts forward, just like a crane’s beak, and climb up on it. I wriggle my way out to the very end of the pole where the base of the jib is secured, climb up and stand, holding the forestay and settle in to watch out for underwater threats. I have to yell loudly and raise my arm if anything suspicious comes close. Luckily, the sea remains clear and the bottom sandy all the way to the shore and a semi-derelict jetty. A small shark swims by and I see the shadow of a much bigger one, but nothing else.

Briggs guides the ship slowly up to the end of the jetty and has the sails lowered from the mast top. Several crewmembers leap from the vessel, haul on the mooring lines and tie us on just as the ship stops drifting.

‘Well done, Briggs,’ says the Captain. ‘Very smooth, Rowdy.’

Rowdy smiles, sort of, but does not say anything.

About a dozen small fishing junks, moored to rusted rings on the faded grey timber jetty closer into the shore, jerk sluggishly as small waves wash against their hulls.

I notice planks missing from the jetty and the sun and seawater have buckled many more. The stumps of the jetty, rotten and encrusted with weeds and barnacles, look about to collapse. Unlike our new long jetty at home in Broome, this one has no fishing nets laid out for repair. Lobster pots are piled high with dried seaweed hanging from them. They don’t seem to have been used for some time. The whole area looks deserted.

‘Looks like the fishing season’s been bad this year,’ says Bosun Stevenson, quietly.

‘Or another misfortune has visited itself upon this village,’ replies the Captain.

Mr Smith looks towards the single street of deserted houses set back from the beach and taps the tips of his fingers together thoughtfully. ‘Could be pestilence. Though some ’uts ’ave been torched from the look of it. We ’ad rightly be a mite careful like.’

‘I sure hope it isn’t pestilence,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen that. Leprosy, I mean. Last year when we sailed down past the Shark Bay settlement to Geraldton. Infected every last man, woman and child. Not a living soul wasn’t covered in sores, and bits missing. Horrible. And the smell. Even the rats had left.’

Bosun Stevenson shakes his head solemnly. ‘Even the rats, eh?’

‘Well,’ continues the Captain. ‘We’ll stay moored here at the end of the jetty, arm ourselves to the teeth and wait until the evening and see if anyone comes out. We’ll soon know if these are pest houses or not.’

The way things have been going, I’ll be surprised if pestilence isn’t the least of our worries before we get home to Broome. If we ever do.

THE VILLAGE

We lie about in the heat, squinting against the blinding sunlight. I have never before felt as hot, even in Broome, and that is a notoriously hot town. Ten minutes in the sun and it fries the top of your head and roasts any bare skin like a Sunday dinner. One basting of oil and I could have been used as pork crackling. That thought reminds me we are tied up on Sumatra Island, home of fierce headhunters. Are they cannibals as well? I look back at the shore hoping not to see anyone, especially any locals armed with six-foot-long blowpipes.

The Captain orders a sail rigged up over the boom and stretched to the sides of the boat like a tent to provide some shade, but even so, heat reflects off the deck like a skillet.

‘Captain!’ calls Mr Smith later in the afternoon, pointing to the shore. A man, obviously important, as he is dressed in a dark silk jacket with a red coloured pattern across his chest, leads several other men, slowly and warily along the jetty towards our ship. All wear dyed cloth wrapped around their heads to form turbans with brightly coloured feathers sticking up from them.

‘Mr Smith,’ says the Captain quietly. ‘No chances. Up in the rigging with you. Briggs, you behind that pile of lobster pots.’

Mr Smith slings a rifle over his shoulder and scurries up the ratlines. Briggs, who has been sitting on the jetty dangling his feet over the edge, rolls away. The Captain tosses him a pistol. Several other members of the crew move behind cover.

The small group reaches us and the Captain stands to greet them. He steps across onto the jetty.

‘Permission, Capitan,’ says the leading man as he salutes ceremoniously.

‘Granted, sir,’ says the Captain, bowing courteously.

‘I see your flag. You are of the English?’ the man asks warily.

‘Yes, I’m proud to say we are, of the English, by way of Broome,’ replies the Captain.

‘I am the village chief,’ he says. ‘I am here to welcome you then.’ He bows deeply and continues, ‘Our poor island has a history of invaders, I am sad to say. Over the centuries, we have had Christians and Hindus, Portuguese and the British. Chinese, of course, and now,’ he pauses and winces. ‘And now for too many years, the hated Dutch.’

‘I understand they have not been … kind,’ replies the Captain.

‘Indeed, they have not,’ the chief replies. ‘However, I have the pleasure to welcome you to our village and invite you and your men to the celebrations on the sand of the shore of the sea, tonight. We will feast in honour of our ancestors, and a good season.’

‘Why, thank you, sir. That is a most unexpected pleasure. My men thank you, they are honoured by your kind invitation and would be delighted to attend,’ says the Captain. ‘And tell me, sir, will your missionary be attending? I see his church up on the hill there.’

‘The missionary believes a good season can be seen as a sign from his God,’ the chief says. ‘If his God can be bothered with such nonsense,’ he adds, sighing slightly. ‘Oh dear, I hope you will not let my little heresy pass to Father Francis when you meet him. He was a man of strong belief and a little humour. I believe his humour, and his faith, lessened when the Dutch colonel visited our village a year ago with his forces. The soldiers behaved … unwell, badly, if you understand of what I mean.’ He stops and looks back at his village, his gaze lingering on the burnt out ruins at the far end of the cove. The chief pauses. ‘Your men are in need of the spiritual guidance?’

‘No,’ says the Captain. ‘Well, quite possibly they are. Especially young Red here. I just need some advice on trade matters. We are also in need of provisions. We have been at sea for some time.’

‘Of course,’ replies the chief. ‘I will send my man out tomorrow, just as soon as he has recovered from the festivities. He is known to be too keen on the tuak.’

‘Aren’t we all,’ laughs the Captain. ‘Until, tonight, sir.’

That evening the crew put on fresh shirts, and some of the men have a shave for the first time in days. As a group, we walk along the jetty to the shore where the festivities have started beneath some palm trees on the sand.

Red lanterns flare, several men play music on drum-like instruments and a big bonfire lights up the sand and reflects off the water in the bay. The breeze has turned balmy and made the evening much more pleasant than the oven-like day. On the fire, a goat is slowly roasting on a spit and smells delicious, and on tables further back, food is spread out on banana leaves.

People of all ages, from excited small children to wizened old grandmothers sit in a big circle watching, many laughing. Young women dance barefoot around the fire, skipping in time to the music while an ancient woman, much older than everyone else, glares disapprovingly at them and even more so at us. There do not seem to be many men in the crowd, which may explain what the leader meant when he said the Dutch had behaved “unwell”. Had they killed the village men? Is that why the fishing fleet sits unused and the jetty in such a poor state of repair?

The village chief comes to welcome us, his face smiling. ‘Capitan, we are honoured. Sit! Sit!’ he says, pointing to drift logs dragged up the beach into a circle surrounding the enormous bonfire. Flames leap high and light everyone’s faces.

As we sit, several women arrive with mugs of dark red liquid with fruit floating in them.

‘Firewater. Drink!’ he commands. ‘One legacy of the Portuguese. There is plenty.’

Who am I to refuse? It would be bad manners.

A couple of hours later, I am tired and bloated from too much food and firewater. The heat from the bonfire and the dancing have worn me out, so I slip down onto the sand and lean against a log, half-dozing I suppose. I should not have been drinking the firewater, but it is safer than fresh water.

Mr Smith comes and sits on the sand beside me and startles me. ‘I been watching youse, Red,’ he says. ‘Youse can’t keep your eyes offa’ that little sultana in the red headscarf.’

‘The pretty girl? She’s been looking at me as well. She smiled, sort of. Do you think she might like me?’ I ask.

‘Some advice, boy. I’se been to these sorts of places before, and believe you me, you can’t go anywhere near ’er. Even think about it and youse’ll be in more strife than Sam Chi. Think them pirates was bad? They’se nothing to a Straits granny after your ’ide. It don’t bear thinkin’ about. Have you seen them knives everyone ’ereabouts carries?’

‘Well, there is always living dangerously,’ I reply, cheekily. Not that I was seriously considering even talking to her. What could I say anyway? I don’t speak a word of Sumatran. And besides, I had seen the size of the knives everyone carries.

‘Never struck me as bein’ worth it, foreign lassies,’ he says. ‘Still, boy, if youse thinks it is …’ He laughs at my expression.

I awake with the heat of the sun on my back, and a sudden pain in my side as Mr Smith gives me a light kick to the ribs. I am face-down on the sand, my mouth as dry as dirt, my head feeling like I have done fifty rounds in a bare-knuckle prize-fight.

‘Red, we gotta keep guard. There’re Dutch patrols about, accordin’ to the chief, maybe. The Cap’n wants us on first. This end of the jetty. Awake.’ He holds the barrel of a Martini-Henry and pushes it towards me. ‘Seein’ as you ’ave proved youse know what the proper end of this is.’

I use the barrel to push myself to my feet and look around. My head feels like a donkey has kicked it and then sat on it. If this is how drinking firewater makes you feel, I think I’d prefer typhoid.

I look about. A thin wisp of smoke, the remains of last night’s fire, rises but nothing else stirs, and even the waves have stopped lapping at the shore. It seems so peaceful that I wonder if the Chief and the Captain can have been mistaken about the Dutch being close.

MAJOR COLLINGWOOD

‘Captain!’ someone shouts from up in the crow’s nest, ‘Visitors.’ The Dragon is still tied to the jetty, but the Captain has posted a sentry in the crow’s nest to watch for patrols.

On the sandy path leading down the hill into the village, three riders appear. In the lead is a European sitting upright on a splendid white horse. Two Sumatrans ride behind him, their rifles upright and glinting.

‘Red,’ says the Captain. ‘There’s a Martini-Henry wrapped in brown paper in my cabin. If you would be so kind and fetch it.’

I scurry back along the jetty, not wanting to keep the Captain waiting.

‘Mr Smith, Briggs, please join us,’ he says as I return to the beach. ‘Our happy band, we precious few, it seems to be these days, have work to do.’

We wait for the horsemen to dismount. Their horses are dirty with the sweat and grime of a long, hard ride The officer kicks his left foot from its stirrup, swings his other leg over the horse’s neck and slides down to the ground. Evidently used to having servants, he hands the reins to Briggs, who takes hold of them, much to his own surprise from the look of his expression. The officer then arches his back and groans. He has obviously been in the saddle all day.

‘James Bowen,’ he says, extending his hand to the Captain. ‘Father Francis has passed on your message. I seem to remember we met once before. A ball? One of Captain Gregson’s spring extravaganzas in Broome?’

The Captain smiles, shaking his hand. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you again, Major Collingwood. I wasn’t expecting to see you in person, I must confess. I had anticipated perhaps one of your subordinates. Training the local militia must keep you well occupied in these troubled times.’

‘The least I could do is call on you myself,’ the Major smiles. ‘And I must confess, I am a little curious. You have become quite famous in these parts in recent weeks, Captain. I’ve been hearing reports from lots of sources.’

‘My reputation is far more tall stories than actual incidents, I’m afraid,’ replies the Captain. ‘The swashbuckling Major Collingwood, on the other hand, now there is a name that keeps getting mentioned in the newspapers back home. Society mothers will have their eligible daughters lined up when you return to Melbourne, mark my words.’

‘Me?’ Collingwood laughs. ‘I’m still just a mercenary fighting other people’s dirty wars for them. From what Father Francis tells me, you might have the means to help end the dirty little war here, or, at least, give the Resistance a fighting chance against the Dutch.’ The Major looks at the wrapped rifle by my side. ‘And this would be the means in question?’

I hand the heavy weapon forward.

Collingwood unwraps the rifle, strokes the polished walnut stock, smiles, and then pulls the lever, cocking the gun, before sighting down the barrel and pulling the trigger. It clicks harmlessly, but with a satisfying sound. ‘There are some self-appointed generals in the hills hereabouts who would give their eldest daughter to have these beauties,’ he says, tapping the stock admiringly. ‘There’s one particular one I can think of. A good looking wench she is too,’ he laughs. ‘Boy, fancy a swap?’

I look to the Captain. How can I answer such a question?

‘We are hoping for gold, not just for Red’s enjoyment,’ laughs the Captain.

‘I have an arrangement that I am confident you will not be able to refuse, Captain. Walk with me to give me a chance to stretch my sore, sorry legs and I’ll explain.’

The two men set off slowly along the sand at the water’s edge until they reach the pile of rocks at the far end of the cove. They sit on the rocks under the shade of a grove of palm trees near the burnt-out huts, smoking their pipes.

I lean against the hull of a fishing boat. I must have dozed off again but, luckily, Mr Smith gives me a kick and wakes me just as the officers return.

‘Tomorrow morning, it is then,’ says the Captain.

‘The guerrilla camp is about two hour’s ride inland,’ says the Major. ‘And she will be expecting you.’

‘She?’ A woman is leading the Resistance?’ asks the Captain, genuinely surprised.

‘Yes. A remarkable woman. Her real name is not generally used. It is whispered by those who fear her. With good reason. Those who don’t fear her, damn well should.’

‘She sounds formidable,’ says the Captain, looking impressed.

‘The Black Widow is what she is called by everybody far and wide, including the Dutch. She scares even me and I’ve met a few genuinely nasty warriors in my time, believe me. It is due to her that the Dutch invaders are beginning to regret their murderous behaviour. Colonel Kohl can’t handle her tactics, and his men can’t find her in the jungle. He flails about attacking the weak targets instead. Like villages, mosques, small plantations. The man is a complete maniac.’

I look up. That is exactly what happened to Teuku’s village.

‘When the Dutch least expect it,’ the Major continues, ‘The Black Widow strikes. Ambushes, booby-traps, food stores poisoned, silent and deadly blowpipe attacks in the night. Guards wake up with their throats cut, their heads missing or their gizzards spilled all over the ground. I wouldn’t want to be a Dutch soldier here in Sumatra for all of Captain Kidd’s gold. The odds of ending up as dead as that pirate are far too high.’

‘I look forward to meeting her,’ says the Captain.

‘I’ll send a wagon for you early, so you miss the worst of the heat,’ the Major replies. ‘And Captain, it is advisable to keep a good lookout. You need to stay out of the way of the Dutch patrols. Nasty bunch. They have become well known for not taking prisoners. I suspect you personally are being searched for all over the Straits after the beached frigate. And that butcher, Commandant Vetter — that wasn’t your handy work too, was it? No one is quite sure. The fishing fleet and half the town burnt down. It certainly has your stamp all over it.’

The Captain does not reply but extends his hand again. ‘I am obliged to you, sir. We will indeed heed your advice. If young Red here can manage to stay awake.’ Fortunately for me, he grins as he says it.

Just on dawn the next morning, Major Collingwood’s Sumatran riders return, together with a wagon pulled by two huge dark grey water buffaloes. Their rough horns curve back over their heads narrowing to vicious points, but the beasts seem dopey and placid. Their tails flick away the early morning insects, but they do little else.

Captain Bowen and Mr Smith sit beside the driver. I sit behind on the tray of the wagon, next to Teuku, and watch the countryside pass by as the buffaloes trudge up the hill and away from the jetty. Teuku is silent and distant, but I don’t feel like talking anyway. A Dutch patrol could appear at any moment. I move the rifle closer to hand and check the load, for about the hundredth time.

As we reach the top of the ridge, the landscape ahead gradually changes to flat fields of pepper trees in endless neat rows. A few untidy farmers’ shacks built on stilts dot the landscape. An hour later, the road narrows to no more than a donkey track and begins to rise steeply into the mountains. Jungle, thick and suffocating, quickly surrounds us again, the canopy cutting out much of the light. Monkeys squawk and birds shrill and the constant clatter and buzz of insects fill the air. Once, a noise like something enormous and sinister close by sounds in the undergrowth.

‘What was that?’ I exclaim.

‘Maybe it is a tiger waiting to attack us,’ replies Teuku. ‘We have big man-eating tigers here in Sumatra. Monsters.’

‘I thought tigers came from Africa,’ I say, a bit confused.

Occasionally, a huge snake slithers across the track, and once I see a brilliant green one hanging from a branch overhead. Sweat pours from me and my shirt is drenched in the humidity. The constant smell of decaying vegetation fills my nostrils. I slap at the insects, but it is an endless task that seems to attract even more.

Another hour or so later, we come to a bend in the track. An armed guard steps out from the shadows. I look up, startled. He stares closely at us as if we are not entirely to be trusted. To him, I imagine we look just like the hated Dutchmen busy plundering his country and killing his countrymen. He spits out a wad of red betel nut juice and waves us on. Over the next mile, at least, half-a-dozen other guards watch us pass by. I have a feeling, though, that we have been watched for every inch of the whole journey.

Ahead, I catch a glimpse of grubby white buildings. The trees open to reveal an extensive but rundown Dutch colonial plantation house surrounded by a high wall that has seen better days. Moss and black mould stain the render and in many places, it has fallen off leaving bare bricks showing through. More guards walk on the top of the wall. They all have their guns trained on us.

THE BLACK WIDOW

‘This it then?’ says Mr Smith, as the cart passes through the gate and stops.

‘It appears to be their headquarters,’ replies the Captain. ‘Major Collingwood tells me the Black Widow’s husband was a fighter too, and her father, but the Dutch captured and killed them. Executed them on the spot. She took over as the resistance leader when that happened. Then she went looking for revenge. And boy, what revenge. She has been so successful men have flocked from all over the East Indies to follow her. All these years later, she is still seeking revenge. And a free country of course. I’ve heard the war is bleeding Holland dry. They’ve sent ten thousand troops so far already to quell the rebellion, but all that does is drive more and more Sumatrans to join her band. Fighters from Borneo and Malaya and Java have joined the fight as well.’

Several men, looking more like fishermen than soldiers, dressed in worn and dirty clothes, peer at us. Others wear sleeveless leather waistcoats with just a strip of coloured cloth around their hips. These fierce-looking warriors have feathered headdresses and carry black blowpipes as long as a man. They stand waiting by the steps of a large warehouse staring sullenly at us. A couple of the men look edgy, clutching their weapons tightly as their eyes dart in all directions.

A woman stands in the courtyard, erect and confident. She has thick reading spectacles and her hair in a bun held together with two chopsticks, and, surprisingly, she is dressed in men’s clothing, I have never seen a woman wearing trousers before so I am a little bit shocked. Somehow, that she also has a pistol on her waist, two bandoliers of ammunition over her shoulders and a wicked-looking recong tucked in her belt does not trouble me. Her hand rests on the handle and she gives me the impression the dagger could be out of its scabbard in a split second and buried in an enemy’s chest. Or mine.

She nods in greeting and in accented English says, ‘Greetings, Captain Bowen, we’ve been expecting you. Welcome, and may Allah be with you.’

‘Ma’am,’ says the Captain, bowing from the waist.

‘Ma’am. Yes, Ma’am. Or you could call me what my men do behind my back — Black Widow,’ she adds.

‘If that is what you would prefer, Ma’am,’ he replies, flashing his most charming smile. ‘By coincidence, my men call me Black Bowen.’

The Black Widow smiles in return and bows her head, but I can see in her eyes, dark and as cold as the Captain’s, little warmth. She has the same distant sadness in them that Teuku does a lot of the time. For once, I cannot imagine the Captain’s charm working.

‘Before we begin discussions,’ she says. ‘I invite your men inside for refreshment. You must be tired and thirsty after the journey.’

I feel mightily relieved, and thankful, as my mouth is as dry as the floor of cocky’s cage. I go to step down from the cart, stopping to grab the rifle.

‘No sign of any Dutch patrols, I hope?’ she says, watching me sling my rifle over my shoulder.

‘No Ma’am,’ I say, surprised. Adults, and definitely resistance generals, do not usually ask my opinion about anything. ‘The road was as quiet as a grave.’ Then I feel foolish as that is exactly where we would all have been if a patrol had turned up — if we were lucky. The Dutch could just as easily leave us to rot by the side of the road so crabs could eat our livers for breakfast.

‘You seem like bright young men,’ she continues, looking at me, and then over at Teuku as he too jumps from the wagon. ‘We are always looking for new recruits. New fighters. Have you ever considered the life of a soldier? It is for a noble cause, the noblest cause of all, freedom. You could join us like Major Collingwood. The man’s a true adventurer.’

‘Not this one,’ laughs the Captain, putting his hand on my shoulder. ‘I promised to bring him back in one piece.’

Teuku does not say anything all and just gazes down at his feet. Something is bothering him and he seems uncomfortable.

We sit down on long benches in the warehouse, a spacious building with a vaulted ceiling and eat fresh rice washed down with sweet, cool rice wine. Military equipment and boxes of ammunition are stacked at the far end.

As I reach for my mug, something catches my eye. I look up. Hanging from a roof beam is a fishing net full of coconuts. No, they are not coconuts. I peer closer into the gloom of the rafters. They are definitely not coconuts, but human skulls. The eye sockets of about twenty or thirty brownish skulls, with wisps of matted hair still attached, stare down at me, almost accusingly. I can feel my mouth hanging open in surprise. I have never seen anything like this before. The Black Widow and her men really are headhunters. The Captain has brought us into a nest of savage headhunters. I feel my heart starting to race again.

She must have seen the look on my face. ‘Many of our fighters still prefer the old ways,’ she quietly says, glancing upwards.

I am too shocked to reply. I have read all about headhunters, but somehow, I never really expected to meet any or be sharing morning tea with them. None of my friends back home is ever going to believe me. If I survive long enough to tell my friends, or even long enough to drink my rice wine. I have a sudden vision of my own head staring down lifelessly at me and gulp several times.

When we finish, the Black Widow leads us outside, across a courtyard and into another smaller building, originally a stable from the look of it. We walk the length of the building to a door on the north wall. She produces a big key and unlocks a solid teak door, reinforced with nails. It opens with a click that echoes around the large room. Worn stone steps lead down into what looks like a cool-storage room.

It takes a few minutes to get used to the dank smell and to the faint light, but when my eyes adjust, I see the cavernous space is lined with rack upon rack of dusty bottles, reflecting the little light that filters into the cellar. We all stand in silent amazement.

The Black Widow reaches over, grabs a bottle and blows away the dust. ‘Fifty years ago a British schooner, the Edinburgh Castle, struck a reef just off the coast near here during a typhoon and went down. All hands lost. My father’s family recovered the cargo. As you can see, bottles of whisky. I know nothing of such things, but I understand from Major Collingwood that they are valuable. He strikes me as the sort of man who would know such a thing,’ she says with a smile.

‘Littlemill Distillery, Cap’n,’ whispers Mr Smith in awe, noticing the label. ‘I know this. It can’t be. Unbelievable. This ’as to be the legendary lost shipment. Littlemill Owners’ Special Reserve. Treasure ’unters ’ave been searchin’ for this for years. It’s said to be the finest drop ever to come out of Scotland. It’s a gold mine, this is, Cap’n. Over seventy years old, and every bottle would ’ave to be worth its own weight in gold. Maybe more.’

‘In normal circumstances,’ says the Black Widow, ‘we would not trade these. The Koran does not approve of alcohol, and I am a student of the Koran. But we are in desperate peril from that homicidal maniac, Colonel Kohl. We have no choice. The man is a monster. Allah forgive him when he finally burns in the deepest part of Hell, because I never will.’

A flash of anger crosses her eyes for a moment, but then she relaxes.

‘Our men are brave and fighting for their homeland, but it is increasingly difficult. They are poorly clothed, underfed and tired, but worst of all they are badly armed. We need your rifles.’

‘Well then,’ replies the Captain. ‘I have no time for those colonial butchers. I’ve seen them in action, murderous brutes that they are. It is simply a matter of numbers. I am more than happy to do business with you, Ma’am.’

In the end, the deal is not even a matter of numbers. It turns out to be virtually all the guns we have in exchange for all the whisky. The Captain is more than happy that he has the best end of the deal.

Other factors, however, like us surviving the journey back along the coast with the expensive whisky, and our necks still intact, still have to be faced. I wonder what our chances will be.

REVENGE

We return to the rebel headquarters the next day with wagons hired from the villagers. Nearly all the crew come, even Bosun Stevenson, though he is still in some pain and cannot walk without crutches.

It takes hours to unload the rifles and then reload the whisky. We form a human chain, passing the gun boxes down from person to person to the cellar and then immediately reloading the wagons with the crates of whisky to almost overflowing. The buffaloes wait patiently in the sun as each wagon is loaded so full that I feel sorry for the poor beasts.

The men fare a little better as, luckily, a cooling monsoon breeze arrives, ahead of the day’s downpour. Heaving the whisky crates isn’t as hard as it could have been under a typical tropical sun, though my back and arms are still aching.

In the afternoon, we are fully loaded and ready to leave when Major Collingwood reappears. I notice Teuku standing by the warehouse door talking quietly to him and the Black Widow. Teuku doesn’t look happy about something, but then again, he never does seem very cheerful.

The Black Widow walks to the wagons with Teuku trailing behind her.

‘Ma’am, I sincerely hope our deal here today will prove favourable to both our causes,’ says the Captain. ‘And I hope your hostile Dutch colonel meets his just desserts as soon as possible. It sounds like he deserves every unpleasantness that could befall him.’

‘Yes, Captain Bowen, we all hope so. I will try and make sure the rifles do the most good. Or the most harm, actually. We can never give in until the last Dutchman has left our land,’ she pauses. ‘Or is buried under it.’

The Captain reaches over to shake her hand but she steps back quickly.

‘I’m sorry Captain. Traditional Muslim women are not permitted to shake hands with men,’ she says, though she does not seem insulted. ‘And I am as traditional as anyone.’

Major Collingwood grins. ‘Not all traditional women typically lead armies and fight for their homeland. Or cause foreign soldiers to quake in their boots at the very mention of their name.’

She smiles amenably at Major Collingwood’s description. ‘But thank you again, Captain. Not taking your hand does not mean I am not grateful to you and your men for this day. On the contrary, I forever will be. On behalf of my poor ravaged country, I thank you. I trust your journey back to your country will be a safe one, and you return to us one day when we are free from the crushing Dutch yoke.’

Major Collingwood does step forward and take the Captain’s hand.

‘Good luck Major,’ he replies. ‘I don’t imagine you and I will be crossing paths anytime in the foreseeable future. And as for the Martini-Henrys, I’ve never heard of the family. They must be from Melbourne with a double-barrelled name like that. Pretentious gits.’ He lifts his hand in farewell, pulls himself up onto the wheel hub and settles into the seat next to Mr Smith.

Mr Smith flicks the reins, the buffaloes jerk the wagon and we head back through the trees, and up the hill towards the main track and onwards, the beasts swatting the swarms of flies off their back with their tails.

Our small convoy has been travelling for some time, and we are through the pepper plantation and descending the biggest hill, when Teuku first sees the smoke through the gaps in the thick jungle vegetation.

‘Captain!’ he yells. ‘Look!’

Well below us in the valley a small village teems with life. Smoke fills the air as at least six huts burn furiously. Screams carry on the wind and in quick succession, several shots sound. Armed men in blue uniforms herd the people towards a large building. Even from this distance, we can see they are terrified. Chaos and confusion seem to be everywhere below us.

A man in a white tunic raises a pair of binoculars towards us. He would not be able to see us clearly, as our wagons are in dark shadows from the jungle’s overhanging vegetation, but our movement must have caught his eye.

‘As soon as those soldiers work out we are not Sumatran farmers, we’re in big trouble,’ exclaims Bosun Stevenson.

‘Captain?’ Teuku’s voice sounds urgent but strange.

‘What is it, Teuku?’

‘That’s him, the one with the binoculars. That’s the colonel who killed my family. Burnt my village. Slaughtered everyone in it. He ordered it. I saw him. I heard him. That’s him. The one in the white uniform with all the gold braid over his shoulder. It is him, I swear, looking up at us.’

‘Colonel Kohl?’

‘Yes.’ Teuku holds up his rifle. ‘I can hit him from here.’

‘I don’t think so,’ replies the Captain, sounding a little unsure. ‘From this distance? That’ll be what, a thousand yards? More? Twelve hundred maybe?’

‘Please, Captain,’ pleads Teuku.

‘Shoot a colonel and you’ll bring the whole Dutch army down on our heads,’ says the Bosun, sounding wary.

‘The bad that men do lives on. The good is oft interred with their bones,’ says the Captain. ‘Do you really think you can do it, Teuku?’

Teuku slowly nods, judging the distance, his face grim. ‘Mr Smith taught me well.’

‘’e probably can, Cap’n,’ says Mr Smith. Then quietly adds, ‘and if ’e misses, I won’t.’ He stands so close to the Captain that most of the men do not hear him.

‘Only if he misses the shot, Mr Smith,’ replies the Captain, equally quietly.

Teuku works the lever, slides one of the big bullets into the chamber of his rifle, steps to the edge of the cliff and rests the end of the barrel on a low-slung tree branch. He squints into the sun.

‘Just like we practiced, Teuku,’ says Mr Smith. ‘And remember to allow for the wind and for aiming down ’ill.’

In the distance, the colonel lowers his binoculars, but as he does so, they suddenly spiral out of his hands and into the air. His head snaps back and the whole front of his white uniform splatters red. He falls like a rag doll, and lies still, his arms splayed out, apparently quite dead. So shocked am I, not even the shot being fired right at my side has registered with me. Seconds later, the now all too familiar smell of gunpowder brings me back to my senses.

The scene erupts like a bull ants’ nest. Men rush to the colonel’s aid or look about in panic, aiming their rifles randomly like wild men. Others scurry for cover, unsure where the shot has come from, not knowing whether there might be more.

‘Now, Mr Teuku Nyak King,’ asks the Captain, placing his hand on Teuku’s shoulder. ‘You have avenged your family and your village. How do you feel now?’

‘I feel nothing, Captain. Nothing. It had to be. The man is a butcher and had to be stopped, that is all.’

‘Well, you stopped him sure enough,’ says the Bosun, admiringly. ‘I doubt even Mr Smith could have made that shot.’

Mr Smith looks sideways at him, pretending to be insulted.

‘Men,’ says the Captain, as we gather close to hear him. ‘Now we have no time to lose. None at all. We must get to the Dragon and away from here. Immediately. We get back, we unload in record time, and we set sail straight away. No delays.’

‘Captain,’ says Teuku. ‘Thank you, but I must stay. I cannot leave again. I’ll head back and join the rebels, if they will have me.’

‘I understand, Teuku,’ he replies. ‘I’ve been expecting this. They will have you. You can count on that. Especially when they learn what you have just done today.’

Several men step forward to shake Teuku’s hand.

‘No fuss now.’ The Captain reaches into his pocket and empties it, taking out a handful of large gold coins, English sovereigns I think. A lot of money. He hands them to Teuku. ‘May your god go with you boy, and keep you safe until our paths cross again.’

‘Youse’ll need to take the long way back, through the jungle,’ says Mr Smith. ‘And keep well ’idden. Good luck, son.’

A few minutes later, after Teuku has disappeared into the jungle, the Bosun nudges me. ‘I’d be more miserable than that, Red,’ he says. ‘The Dragon is one ship’s boy down now, so the other one will have to do twice as much work.’

A couple of men laugh, mostly at the look on my face, I suspect. But then they concentrate on getting back to the coast as quickly as possible. I feel sorry for the poor buffaloes being driven relentlessly and there are no rest stops on the return journey.

CUTTING IT FINE

Unfortunately, we are a few minutes too late in setting sail. We unload most of the bottles like men demented, and stow them away in the hold carefully. We have just returned to the wagons for the final half-dozen crates when Rowdy gasps.

I look to where he points and see rank upon rank of blue and white uniforms. It looks like a whole regiment of Dutch soldiers is pouring down the slope towards us.

‘Leave the last boxes. Get back to the Dragon, now!’ yells the Captain.

Suddenly, somehow, about ten soldiers, an advance party, are almost upon us, their rifles levelled as they come within firing distance, their bayonets fixed. I can see the expressions on their faces and sweat running down their cheeks.

‘English, surrender!’ yells one of them.

Then we are running, racing frantically along the rickety old jetty to where the Dragon is moored, ready to sail, the sails hoisted and flapping.

I duck instinctively at a sudden crash. A bullet whizzes past my ear. Seconds later, another just misses me. I cannot run any faster even if my life depends on it, and in this particular case, it most certainly does. Just one slip and a Dutch bayonet will skewer me. The Dragon pulls at her mooring cable, as all canvas flutters then strains against the breeze ready for us to leap aboard and cast off.

Another crash sounds and Rowdy, running ahead of me, jerks and swears, but keeps moving, the back of his white shirt darkening with blood. He slows, staggering.

I grab him under his armpit and pull him along as best I can but his weight pulls me down, and I stumble. What have I done? We are both going to get slaughtered.

‘I’ll take him!’ yells Captain Bowen, grabbing Rowdy. ‘Get on ahead, Red. Get on board! Now!’

Bosun Stevenson stands ready at the helm but faces back watching us, shielding the sun from his eyes with his palm. To his left, Mr Smith stands by the stern-chaser, the stern cannon’s trigger cord tight and ready to be yanked.

I am almost beside the ship, my lungs about to burst and a stitch in my side nearly crippling me. Only a few more paces. Only a few more breaths of air.

‘Red!’ yells the Captain again. I turn my head but keep on running.

He reaches down and his pulls his dagger from his boot and throws it forward towards me. ‘The cable!’

I reach up and catch the blade by the handle as it curves through the air, then bring the sharp edge down on the taut, thick mooring cable with all my might. The threads of manila part after three swings and the rope snaps. The Dragon groans and lurches forward, like a whippet after a rabbit, running beside the jetty and scraping a pylon.

‘Aboard, boy!’ the Captain yells.

Sam Chi reaches for me and seems to bundle me through the air at the same time. I land with a thump on my back. The Captain hauls Rowdy over the widening gap, and we’re away.

On the jetty, the Dutch soldiers are reloading their rifles and ramming bullets into the breeches ready to shoot us at close range.

‘Mr Smith!’ It is the Captain’s voice loud and commanding. ‘When you’re ready …’

The sharp roar of the Dragon’s stern-chaser is followed immediately by the blood-curdling cries of the soldiers suddenly torn apart by a hail of murderous grapeshot.

Mr Smith fires the second chaser gun just as a huge wave splashes over the stern, followed by the far off crash of a large cannon.

‘Those damn Dutchies have our measure,’ cries the Captain. ‘Get us out of here, Bosun. With extreme haste, if you would be so kind.’

The next splash erupts minutes later, but Bosun Stevenson has ordered the sails keenly trimmed and the helm adjusted, so the shot is further off.

‘Is that enough haste for you, Captain?’ asks Bosun Stevenson.

The Captain smiles in appreciation, and then nods towards the water as something catches his eye. The unmistakable fins of several sharks race towards the jetty attracted by the blood in the water.

Bosun Stevenson sets a course straight out to sea away from the coast on a broad reach, so we make good speed. And aren’t I glad about that. The further we sail from the land, the happier I become until I finally feel safe again for the first time in weeks.

THE LIGHTHOUSE

A couple of weeks later, we see our own west coast and soon after that, Spit Point, just south of Port Hedland, appears through haze way off on the horizon. As we draw closer, I notice a group of Aborigines about a dozen strong standing at the water’s edge watching us. They hold spears and do not wave when I do.

‘They’ll be suspicious,’ says the Captain. ‘Not surprising after the way they’ve been treated. If we look like we’re about to land, they’ll disappear, thinking we’re blackbirders or pearlers wanting to kidnap them as crew.’

The journey back has been mostly uneventful, with steady breezes, and although we occasionally see a far-off sail, the Captain just alters tack, and we keep well away. ‘Can’t have anyone taking pot shots at our precious cargo,’ the Captain declares. ‘Or worse, snooping below decks.’

That night I am just finishing up the accounts and refilling my inkwell when the Captain appears. I look up.

‘When we land, I need to find a buyer for our cargo. As my bookkeeper, you can accompany me. Help me keep the customers honest. Work the percentages. You’ll need your wits about you though. There are too many scoundrels in Fremantle all trying to part you from your money, or your lifeblood. And that’s just the police.’

‘Fremantle?’ I say excitedly. The furthest south I have ever been is Geraldton where Ma’s sister, Dolly, lives, but I have heard all about Fremantle from customers at the Curse. It is supposed to be a wild and wonderful place full of wickedness and debauchery, with shops and mansions and rich toffs with handsome carriages, and elegant ladies who wear dresses with hardly any tops to them.

‘When do we go, Captain?’ I ask, impatiently.

‘Bosun Stevenson should have us there in under a week. Now off to bed with you. The journey is not over yet.’

I’m sure I won’t be able to sleep with excitement but I must drop off because about midnight, the Bosun suddenly appears. ‘Red!’ he calls, ‘I need your eyes on deck. Now.’

The Captain is already at the side rail staring into the darkness. We are sailing south-west, not far off the coast, under reefed sails. The night is as dark as pitch, lit only by the stern lantern.

‘We’ve passed Ninety Mile Beach. The town of Cossack is just south. And there are shoals hereabouts,’ cautions the Bosun.

Briggs has the helm. ‘Captain, yonder light from the lighthouse. It’s gone out.’

‘So what’s that?’ asks the Captain, pointing towards the shore and a flickering light.

‘That started after the lighthouse went dark. It’s not right. I am thinking wreckers, I am Captain.’

‘Bosun?’ asks the Captain.

He nods in agreement. ‘Point Samson is not far. Killer rocks if ever I’ve seen any. Biggest ship’s graveyard I know of, Captain. Seems possible,’ replies Bosun Stevenson.

‘Call the crew. Every man jack. Change tack to seaward, Bosun. Get us away from here. Now!’ the Captain commands. ‘And douse the stern light.’

‘Sir.’ The Bosun turns and picks up his speaking tube. ‘Prepare to go about!’ He yells at the men rushing up the steps to the deck. In ten, nine …’

I have read about wreckers. They move warning lights to lure ships onto rocks so they can steal any cargo washed up on shore. They also frequently kill any unlucky survivors swept ashore as well, so there are no witnesses to their foul deeds. Wreckers are not common on our coast, but in Cornwall in England and on the southern shores of America it is a thriving business and it is said whole families join in the mayhem and murder.

‘Red, keep an eye on that light. Tell me if you see anything,’ the Captain says, handing me his telescope.

It is difficult keeping the glass in focus while the deck bobs about with the swell. Then I see something. Movement. I do not know how being as it is so dark. Perhaps the silhouette against the white water crashing on the shore makes it clear.

‘Captain,’ I call. ‘To the left of the light. Down at the water’s edge. People. And a donkey and I think there may be a cart or a wagon further back. I can’t see for sure.’ I hand back the telescope.

‘They must be expecting a good harvest this lovely night,’ says the Bosun. ‘What with wagons ready, eh, Captain?’

‘Well, those damn wreckers are going to get much more than they bargained for,’ he replies with a cold laugh. ‘I wanted to get the Dragon to Fremantle as soon as possible, but we can wait a little longer. Bosun Stevenson, can you find us an anchorage hereabouts, in this darkness?’

‘Aye, Captain, the dark is no problem. I have one in mind. Cape Lambert is a few miles beyond Cossack. It’s safe, facing north, so reasonably protected from the breakers.’

‘Splendid. I think the lighthouse keeper deserves a visit, don’t you? Hear what he has to say for himself.’

‘Captain, I’ll run the pox-ridden villain through, on behalf of all good seamen,’ says Bosun Stevenson.

‘That’d be too quick for a damned sinner like that,’ says Sam Chi. ‘How about we roast him alive on the beach. Give him a chance to think about all those he’s drowned while his skin turns to crackling.’

We stand on the hard sands of a small beach. The lighthouse looms high above us, perched almost precariously at the edge of a red cliff, the early morning light reflecting off its white-washed paint. A low-roofed keeper’s cottage stands nearby. On a wind-blown clothesline, dresses and shirts of all sizes whip in the breeze.

‘That looks like the only way,’ says Mr Smith, pointed upwards.

‘Of course,’ I mutter. Typical. No shortcuts. The land feels so hard under my feet and it takes me a while to stop swaying after all our time at sea.

A long pathway starts in the rocks back from the beach where we have just landed the dinghy. It seems to take forever to make our way up the hill, but eventually we stand, bent and puffed out, by the gate of the house. Climbing a steep hill is not like running up and down the ratlines.

The Captain does not bother knocking. He presses the latch on the front door and flings it open. It slams back against the wall with a crash. I jump at the noise but follow him as the others file in.

The lighthouse keeper sits at his kitchen table nursing an old pewter mug of steaming tea. He looks up, stunned. Instantly, he jumps to his feet, spilling his brew and knocking over his chair. His wife screams. I am not surprised. Other than the Captain, we look exactly like a gang of murdering pirates in our ragged sea clothes.

The Captain reaches the keeper in two strides, grabs the front of his shirt and hauls him forward so their faces are only inches apart. ‘Do you know who I am?’ snarls the Captain.

The keeper, dazed into silence, nods his head, his eyes wide with fear. Everybody who lives on the west coast knows of black-clad Captain Bowen.

‘Did they pay you to extinguish the lamp, or are you part of the wrecking gang?’ he demands. ‘Answer now or you die in front of your wife and children.’

I had not noticed the six small children huddled in the corner, staring at us in abject horror.

The keeper says nothing. His mouth opens like a caught fish, but no noise comes out. I suspect that terror has cost him the power of speech.

‘Mr Smith,’ the Captain continues. ‘Take this wretch outside and fling him over the cliff. He can learn what a wrecked seaman feels like first hand, being tossed against ragged rocks and drowning within sight of land.’ He throws the man away from him. ‘And God forgive you, you murderous swine,’ yells the Captain, as the man stumbles backwards and tumbles over his fallen chair. He lies like an upturned turtle.

‘No!’ cries the woman at the stove. ‘It is the magistrate. He done it. He is the one. Not my Josiah. I swear. I swear! He forced him on pain of death, he did. At the point of a gun.’

The Captain pulls out his blade from his boot and stands over Josiah, holding the point of it against the shaking man’s chest. ‘Is that true?’ he demands.

The keeper nods enthusiastically. ‘Yes, the magistrate.’

‘My Josiah, he is a good man,’ his wife cries. ‘The magistrate. He is the leader of the wreckers. Wicked he is, as wicked as a mortal sin. The Devil hisself is in that man. He acts to be on the side of the law, but he ain’t. He is greedy and cruel down to his toes. He’s worser than any crook.’

The Captain looks around the bare cottage. There is no evidence of plunder from ships. No marine furniture or ships’ barrels or exotic goods are visible. In fact, the lighthouse keeper’s cottage is almost as bare as a monk’s cell.

The Captain clears his throat and becomes civil and polite again. He replaces his dagger in his boot, turns to the wife, and bows slightly. ‘Madam, please forgive my appalling manners and this most unwarranted disturbance. I am truly sorry.’ He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a large gold coin, and places it on the kitchen table. ‘We shall disturb you no more and go and visit this magistrate of yours. Magistrate …?’

‘Wedgwood. Daniel Wedgwood. At the courthouse. He lives next door. The next house to it. Down thata way.’ She points in the opposite direction of the hill we have climbed only minutes before. ‘But you can’t tell him it was me what sent you. He’ll kill us all if he knows. He’s done that a’fore. Killed folk what went against him.’ The poor woman puts her fingers to her mouth in a nervous gesture. ‘Please no.’

The Captain tilts his head again as if the lighthouse keeper’s wife is a real lady. ‘Madam,’ he says. ‘I guarantee that whatever happens, you will be able to rest your head easy from now on. Andkan

Magistrate Wedgwood’s sinful wrecking days will have ended within the next hour.’

‘An’ not just ’is wrecking days, I’m a guessing,’ says Mr Smith, quietly. ‘All ’is sinful days.’

Outside, the Captain stands staring down the hill at the scattered houses and stone buildings with rusted iron roofs. About ten grubby boats, including several pearling luggers, float calmly in the bay, tied to the grey timbers of a jetty. I think the courthouse must be the solid building on the far side of the town, with the Magistrate’s house sandwiched between it and a church.

‘Mr Smith,’ calls the Captain. ‘If you please, I have a task for you.’

I do not hear what the task is as he gathers the gun crew close to him. But whatever the Captain has planned, they seem happy enough about it as they head down the track and back to the ship, leaving six of us to visit the magistrate.

THE MAGISTRATE

The magistrate’s house, made of the same red stone as the courthouse, is impressive, but then most government officials live in impressive houses, even in one-horse towns like Cossack. It is surrounded by a low stone wall, bordering the church graveyard on one side and the courthouse on the other.

‘Briggs, to the back door, if you would be so kind,’ says the Captain. ‘We don’t need any surprises.’

An old gardener is digging in the vegetable patch. He ignores us and keeps on with his work. Which is odd, considering we are half-a-dozen disreputable looking strangers, all well-armed with pistols, rifles and daggers. In fact, we must look just like the characters of Treasure Island cast ashore.

I am surprised when the front door opens before we get to it. The magistrate steps out of his doorway as we are filing through the gate. ‘Captain Bowen, I presume? Good morning, sir. Pray, why do I have the pleasure of greeting you this beautiful morning?’

He must have been a brave man coming outside to meet us like that. Me, I would have been out the back door and across the desert as fast as my legs could carry me. We look as fierce as Genghis’ gang of pirates in the Straits.

‘Good morning to you too, sir,’ replies the Captain. ‘I was wondering if you could enlighten me, Magistrate Wedgwood, as to what might have happened last night to cause your lighthouse to fail just when we needed it most?’ The Captain looks up at the hill that looms over the town. ‘The lighthouse flame went out but was replaced by a fire on the beach just north of here. It could have led my helmsman straight onto the reef.’

Even from where we stand outside the house we can see, off in the distance, the spine-chilling reef of dark, jagged rocks lashed by wild white surf, looking like the foaming mouth of a rabid dog. Two old ship’s masts, still with scraps of canvas flying from the spars, stick out above the boiling sea. The ribs of the ships remind me of skeletons stripped bare of flesh.

The magistrate’s smile slowly fades. The Captain says nothing else and looks unflinchingly into his face. The man has no real answer to give. No amount of denial or any degree of bluffing is going to work. The game is up and the magistrate knows it, just as he must know Captain Bowen’s reputation. He gulps and his eyes flit about, desperately searching for a way to escape.

‘What is the Captain going to do?’ I whisper.

‘Wait,’ hisses Sam Chi. ‘And watch.’

‘Bowen!’ someone behind us shouts. I turn to see a group of heavily armed men marching towards the house. There are about fifteen of them, so we are greatly outnumbered.

‘Bowen!’ repeats the oldest one, his voice angry, as they near the stone wall. ‘Who do you think you are, invading our town like a band of scurvy pirates?’

In a single move, the Captain pulls his knife from his boot, grabs the magistrate by the arm and swings him before him, the blade to his throat. ‘One step further and you lose your magistrate, you bunch of bloodthirsty wreckers,’ yells the Captain.

‘Send him to the Devil for all I care!’ yells back the leader.

One of the townsmen, a taller man at the side, lifts his pistol and fires. The shot is loud but the bullet goes wide.

I instantly duck down and crawl up against the stone wall. I glance about, trying not to panic. The rest of the crew are down as well, but the Captain and magistrate still stand in the doorway until suddenly the Captain pushes the magistrate away, dives forward and rolls behind the wall too, leaving the lawman looking confused. Another of the men fires our way and then a hail of deadly bullets whizzes over our heads.

Briggs appears around the side of the house. He glances at the gaggle of angry men, lifts his rifle and fires, hardly aiming. A wrecker cries out and falls backwards, clutching at his chest.

Briggs crouches down, but instead of reloading his rifle he calls to me. ‘Red, your pistol!’

I toss him my Colt. He catches it one-handed, cocks back the hammer with his thumb and fires several times in quick succession.

Suddenly, a man wielding an old-fashioned sword jumps up onto the wall directly above me. As he leaps over my head, I thrust my knife up. The blade catches him on the ankle, and as he lands on the injured leg, it buckles under him. He topples over and falls heavily with a loud thump. Yelling in pain, he lies on his side, winded.

‘Retreat! Fall back!’ yells the Captain. ‘Into the graveyard.’

Most of the wreckers stand back, reloading their guns,
so we have a minute or so until they finish.

I scramble over the sidewall, keeping as low as I can, and run between the weathered gravestones and duck down in some long dry grass behind a solid looking slab of smooth granite.

The wreckers are swarming into the garden and heading our way when the main window of the magistrate’s house suddenly shatters and the front door flies from its hinges and cartwheels across the garden. A cannon roars massively from the sea. A wrecker yells in alarm as the solid door slams into him, knocking him to the ground. He lies still. Rocks explode in the house walls and dust fills the air. Before I can work out what has happened, more booms sound from across the water. The Black Dragon has arrived and the gun crew has fired all her cannons. Seconds later, another window shatters and the distinctive crack of the stern-chaser sounds. The gun crew is obviously in excellent reloading form as, within seconds, another salvo of shots tears into the magistrate’s house, leaving gaping holes. One more and the building will be blown into destruction.

‘Had enough?’ yells Captain Bowen. ‘Next it will be your boats. Then your houses, so help me!’

‘Enough!’ someone yells. The wreckers stand slowly, one at a time, dropping their guns and holding up their hands in surrender, utterly defeated.

The Captain waves his hat. Out on the Dragon, through the gun smoke haze, we can see Bosun Stevenson at the helm. He waves back. Mr Smith, standing at the rail beside Long Tom, also lifts his hand and waves.

In the shattered doorway, the magistrate, what is left of him, slumps over a pile of rubble. I stare dumbfounded. His head is missing, completely blown off. I can’t take my eyes from the ghastly sight, not quite believing what I am looking at. Blood pours from the top of his collar where his head should be. I look away. In the months since I joined the Dragon, I have seen all manner of death and destruction, and enough blood to fill Roebuck Bay, but I have never seen a man with his head blasted completely off. I wonder too, about myself. Only a few months ago I would have probably thrown up seeing a dreadful sight like that, but now I feel okay, just a little shocked, and even a quiet sense of satisfaction fills me. I feel a bit guilty at that.

The wreckers must be a hard lot. Not one of them seems the least bit concerned that their local lawman lies dead, shattered and headless only yards away.

‘You all know who I am?’ asks the Captain when the wreckers gather at the gate, bewildered, bloodied and dazed by the sudden turn.

The leader nods, sullenly. ‘Of course.’

‘Well, listen and listen well,’ says the Captain. ‘We are on our way from here, but be assured, if I ever hear of another ship coming to grief here, be it your fault, be it bad seamanship, or even an act of God, I don’t care. I will bring the Dragon back and I will level Cossack so that not even a single blade of grass is left alive. I am a man of my word and this is my solemn promise to you. Stick to fishing and you might live long, but one more wreck hereabouts and you all die. Believe me.’

With that, the Captain turns and leads us towards the beach. I look back once or twice, but they just stand there staring, almost in disbelief, until the dinghy arrives and we are rowed back to our boat. Unbelievably, the gardener is still digging away as if nothing at all has happened.

‘Captain,’ I ask later. ‘That magistrate? Were you going to kill him if Mr Smith hadn’t shot his head off with a cannon?’

‘Heavens no, Red. Haven’t you noticed I hardly ever kill anybody?’

‘But Magistrate Wedgwood deserved it,’ I reply. ‘He led the wreckers and must have killed lots of sailors.’

‘Indeed. It’ll be good and warm where he’s heading. I’m just glad we helped him along on his way down there, just a little sooner than he might have wanted. He can roast his chestnuts over a hot fire for all eternity. Not that he’ll be able to find them without a head.’

I nod happily. ‘And the other wreckers will be having sleepless nights every time there is a storm brewing, bringing ships close to the reef,’ I say.

‘Yes, they will,’ he agrees. ‘Though I was sorely tempted to let Mr Smith keep on blasting away all day and send them all to Hell. No one calls me a scurvy pirate. The nerve of them. Cheeky swine.

HIGHWAY ROBBERY

At sunrise five days later, the Captain and I are rowed ashore to a windswept, sandy beach, well out of sight of any coastal settlements. We make our way through sand hills covered with beach grass and pig-face and up to a sandy track about two hundred yards back from the water. We watch the dinghy head back to the Dragon and then start walking south along the narrow gap in the vegetation.

‘The Halfway House is a fair trek inland to the main road south. It’s a hotel where the coaches change horses,’ says the Captain, after he sees me looking about bewildered. There is absolutely nothing but low scrub ahead.

‘Halfway House? Halfway to where?’ I ask.

‘I’ve never thought about it. Nowhere, I’d say. Or halfway to Hell. There’s not a lot out here, is there?’

I nod my head in agreement.

A chilly, drizzly morning has me shivering. I turn my collar up to help keep the cold from seeping into my bones as we trudge along the road and then down the slope towards a grey timber building in the distance. The collar is of little use and I am soon aching from the cold. I am not accustomed to this sort of southern weather.

When we finally arrive at Halfway House, a dusty-looking coach is standing ready in front of the hotel. A red Royal Mail symbol on its door has all but faded away. Four horses are snorting and stamping their hooves and pulling against the harnesses. Mist from their warm bodies rises in the morning air and the familiar smell of horseflesh, oiled leather harness and manure fills my nostrils.

‘Wait here, Red,’ says the Captain. ‘I’ll go and buy our fares.’

I am grateful the Captain has paid for us to ride inside the coach, unlike the half-a-dozen men who have tickets to ride clinging to the outside roof. Several men are shivering before we even leave, and although it isn’t cold enough to freeze, it will be a seriously miserable ride for them.

There are two ladies ready to climb aboard, so the Captain and I will have to share the inside of the coach.

‘Ma’am, if you would allow me to introduce myself,’ says the Captain, holding out his hand to the older woman wearing a pale yellow hat. ‘I am Captain James Bowen, of Ravenscroft, in Broome,’ he says, smiling widely.

I see the woman’s eyes brighten considerably at the word ‘Captain.’ She too extends her hand. ‘Miss Jane Boston, of Mount Martin Station, and my ward, Miss Elizabeth Barnett.’

‘Delighted,’ he says. ‘And may I introduce Mr Red Read, my secretary.’

The women both smile sweetly at me but do not seem that interested, after which the Captain helps them aboard while I hold the coach door open.

‘Settle in for a long, bumpy ride, Red,’ says the Captain, as I climb up a small metal step and sit on the hard horsehair seat beside him. ‘This stretch should take all day but will feel like a week. And in a few minutes, you will see why I prefer riding on water and not land.’

The driver yells, snaps the brake off, and the groom leads the horses in a big wheel out onto the road, the coach jerking against the harnesses. Less than a minute later, the driver cracks his whip and the horses pick up a steady trot. The sound of their hooves striking the packed earth of the road is loud and relentless. After weeks at sea, I think I have become more used to the quieter sounds of the wind, the creak of the hull and the swish of the Dragon’s oak timbers sliding effortlessly through the water.

My feet only just reach the floor. After a mile or so the Captain notices me squirming uncomfortably in my seat, as every pothole and every rock in the road sends a shock up through my bum.

‘Here, Red, this might help a little,’ he says. He places his leather satchel on the floor between us so I have a footrest. It does help, but by the time we stop to change horses, I can hardly walk. I notice too, the Captain stretching his legs and rubbing the seat of his pants.

‘Remind me, boy, never to do this again. I think I’d rather face a whole fleet of Chang Pao’s pirates than another hour of this infernal misery,’ he says as we climb back on board for the next leg of the journey. ‘My back will never be the same again, so help me.’

In the afternoon, as the shadows of the spindly trees grow longer and darker across the road, and we pass the fifteen-mile marker carved into a stump at the road’s edge, a gunshot sounds. Someone on the roof curses and the horses whinny as the coach driver pulls them to a halt.

‘Stand and deliver!’ a voice shouts.

‘Surely he jests. A bushranger? In this day and age?’ says the Captain, with a pronounced sigh. He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘You only have to stand outside Fremantle Prison for a short while to see the fate of most road agents. Let me tell you, Red, a few years on the wrong end of a government pick and shovel is a good way to shorten your days.’

We can see the man through the coach window. He sits astride a chestnut horse and is dressed not unlike the Captain, all in black and wearing high riding boots. His hat is pulled down low and a scarf wraps around his face so only his eyes show. Although he wears the clothes of a wealthy gentleman, they don’t seem to fit him at all. His coat is several sizes too big and his trousers are loose and baggy.

‘Captain Bowen, if I might ask …?’ enquires Miss Boston. She sounds extremely concerned, and Miss Barnett is rigid with fear.

‘Ladies, do not alarm yourselves,’ replies the Captain, reassuringly. ‘I’ve dealt with this sort of situation before. Red, down on the floor before he sees you.’

I slide from the seat into the narrow space between us. I wonder how he can be so calm with an armed bandit only yards away. However, we have both been in far worse predicaments in recent weeks. Facing a lone robber has to be better than being slowly roasted alive by Chinese pirates. I realise I feel surprisingly calm, too.

‘In my bag, there are two loaded Colts, right at the top. The hammers just need cocking. You keep one, hand me the other. Stay hidden down there until you hear me say, “not my father’s gold watch”. Got that? That’ll be my signal.’

I nod. ‘Your father’s gold watch.’

‘When I say it, I’ll distract him, and you pop your head up to the window and shoot the brigand’s horse. He’ll be so surprised that when the horse goes down, I’ll shoot him. My father’s gold watch. Not until. You won’t be able to miss.’

Miss Boston looks even more shocked at that, covering her mouth with her fingers, suddenly wondering, no doubt, with what pair of desperate ruffians she shares a coach.

The Captain tucks his pistol beneath his coat, swings open the door and steps down onto the coach’s step. As he does so, a chilly breeze sweeps inside.

I can hear the other passengers climbing down from up on top as well, several of them cursing at their bad luck, using language most foul indeed. Miss Boston and Miss Barnett pretend not to hear though they do blush a little.

The bandit’s horse will not stay still, snorting, twisting its head back and forward and trying to turn in a circle, unhappy with its rider and trying to unseat him. He struggles to keep the horse under control with only one hand on the reins, the other gripping his pistol.

‘Damn it, forget that plan Red,’ exclaims the Captain. ‘The man’s a fool.’ The Captain reaches back and slams the coach door. It crashes shut as loud as any gunshot. The horse startles and rears up, kicking its front legs into the air in panic. As it does so, the Captain leaps forward and grabs the robber’s ankle. With a cry of surprise, the rider topples sidewards off his horse, his other foot still caught in the stirrup. He is left dangling upside down, his head banging on the ground.

Miss Barnett screams but Miss Boston remains calm, making soothing noises.

The Captain grabs the horse’s reins before it becomes even more skittish and bolts. Hanging upside down helplessly, the bandit kicks and struggles, but it does him no good. In fact, I think he must have hurt himself as he groans in pain.

‘Well, thanks to you, sir, the judge will be earning his fee with this one, damn his evil soul,’ says a man in a thick brown coat. ‘Well done, sir.’

The man leans forward and pulls the scarf from the bushranger’s face. I cannot believe it. He is a boy, younger than me, and completely terrified. He looks as if he is about to cry.

‘Oh, no,’ Captain Bowen exclaims quietly. ‘Not this.’ He sighs and his shoulders drop as if the weight of the world has just been dumped on them.

AIDING AND ABETTING

‘Here, Red,’ says the Captain, handing me the reins before he untangles the boy’s foot from the stirrup and lowers him to the ground. He picks the boy up as if he is a bag of feathers, carries him over to the coach and sits him down, leaning his back up against the coach wheel.

‘Red, take his horse and tie it to the rear of the coach,’ he says. ‘Give it plenty of rope and be sure to tie up the stirrups so they don’t dangle.’

‘Sir,’ I reply. ‘I’ll …’ but a man interrupts me.

‘I knows youse,’ he says, pointing at the Captain. He has skin as dark as a sailor’s. ‘Youse are Bowen, the famous smugg …, er, sea captain. I seed you in the Smuggler’s Curse, I did, in Broome, only six months past it was.’ He turns to face the crowd of passengers, now all inspecting the half-unconscious boy. ‘This really is him, Black Bowen. Out of Broome.’

The passengers look, curious. Most people seem to have heard of Black Bowen.

‘I am afraid you are mistaken, my good friend,’ the Captain says. ‘The name is Read. Red Read, as you will find on my coach ticket here.’ The Captain unfolds one of the receipts for the fare, which does, indeed, have my name written on it. He shows the sailor.

I doubt he can read but he nods wisely and then touches his forelock. ‘Sorry to be bothering you, sir. I must be mistook.’

‘I can have fairly swore,’ he mutters as he climbs back on the coach and up to the top, ready for the final part of his cold journey.

‘Give me a hand here!’ calls the coach driver. ‘We’ll deliver this devil to the constables in Fremantle.’

The driver ties the boy’s hands to the luggage rack. He sits awkwardly, shaking with cold, or maybe fear. We are all aware that for highway robbery only a few years ago he would have been in for a very short walk to a very sudden stop. Now, in these more modern and enlightened times, he is in for a very long holiday in a dark, dank cell in the infamous Fremantle Prison.

A few minutes later, with a savage crack of his whip, the driver urges the horse team forward again, this time at a gallop. The coach jerks several times and we settle back in as comfortably, or as uncomfortably, as we can for the journey to Gingin and the next change for the horses.

For the remainder of the passage, the Captain says barely a word. He stares broodingly out of the window, clearly not actually seeing the scrubby bushes and sand. In all the time I have known him, I do not think I ever saw the Captain so preoccupied. I wonder what bothers him so much.

‘Captain, will you be away from Mrs Bowen for considerable time this journey?’ asks Miss Boston. She seems more than impressed with the Captain and apparently wants to get to know him better.

‘I’ve been travelling for some time,’ he replies, giving nothing away.

She tries opening several conversations with him, but he is completely withdrawn. Even mentioning that her two brothers are senior naval men does not draw the Captain from his preoccupation. She is evidently well born, just like Captain Bowen though he spends much of his time in hotels and bawdy houses consorting with sailors, rogues and vagabonds. I suspect Miss Boston’s chastity is never going to be in any danger as far as the Captain is concerned.

‘The Lobster!’ yells the driver as the coach slows.

‘Not too much longer now,’ announces Miss Boston.

We stop outside the Lobster Hotel, a white building at the top of a sand hill. It needs a good clean up. The Captain opens the coach door and steps out. ‘If you will excuse me, Miss Barnett, Miss Boston,’ he says as he extends his arm for the ladies to be helped down the coach step. ‘I will re-join you inside in a few moments.’

‘Surely, Captain Bowen,’ replies Miss Boston, her hopes suddenly revived.

‘Red,’ he says after the passengers have all entered the hotel and the groom is leading the tired horses to the stable. ‘Help me down with the boy.’

The lad is awake but still half out of his mind with fear, and perhaps cold, as he shivers uncontrollably. The Captain cuts away the ropes from the boy’s wrists with one slice of his sharp black blade.

‘What’s your name, boy?’ demands the Captain.

‘Ar-Ar-Archie. Archie Simmons, sir,’ he says, so quietly we can hardly hear him.

‘Archie Simmons,’ says the Captain. ‘In ten minutes I am going to fire my pistol. Before then, I suggest you get as far away from here as possible. Through the bush and north along the coast until you reach home. Don’t stop, don’t slow down. Someone might come after you, but you are young and should be able to outrun them with a head start. Go now, and when you do get home, find a less deadly profession. Highway robbery will only end badly, maybe even at the end of a hangman’s rope. Believe me, boy, I know.’

The boy nods in relief and does not need a second telling. He jumps from the roof of the coach in one leap, undoes his horse, and swings into the saddle barely using the stirrups. The horse bolts away like a hare at the greyhound racing.

I look at the Captain in astonishment. ‘Why did you do that?’ I ask.

‘Professional courtesy, I suppose, Red. Besides, you know what the law of the land is like. Some magistrate or other would probably have jailed the little waif for twenty years. It doesn’t seem right. It would have been like letting them jail you.’

‘I hope that never happens,’ I reply.

‘You’ll be fine as long as I’m about,’ he continues. ‘I won’t let them jail you. I promise.’

I am not sure how to reply. I tend to feel reasonably safe knowing the Captain is close by, but it is sure a good feeling to have his reassurance.

‘Even if I have to shoot you first myself to stop them,’ he adds.

Ten minutes later, he fires his pistol into the air, scaring me half to death. ‘Stop!’ he yells.

Several men rush out from the Lobster’s front door.

‘The boy. He’s escaped!’ exclaims the Captain, sounding surprised. ‘He went that way,’ pointing in precisely the opposite direction to where the boy fled.

FREMANTLE

‘Ah, civilisation,’ announces the Captain, taking a deep breath.

I look out of the window, but nothing very much seems to have changed. The bush has thinned out a little, a paddock is dotted with dusty sheep, and a herd of cows stands unmoving and uninterested in us passing. I do notice a faint smell on the wind, though.

More houses line the road. Surprisingly, many are crowded together considering there is so much space about. Children stand in their doorways and stare out at the coach as it thunders past. Occasionally, it scatters chooks pecking in the road and scares dogs, which then come running after the coach, barking loudly.

Fremantle, when we arrive late in the afternoon, is nothing like I expected at all. As we reach the bridge over the Swan River, I see off to the left a large tanning factory at the water’s edge. It smells bad, really bad. Even the cesspit at Mr Tosser’s, the butcher near our hotel, smells sweet compared to this horrible, foul pesthole, and Mr Tosser is a famous stinker. We often say the vile smell of his cesspit is enough to kill seagulls in flight.

Miss Boston and Miss Barnett both take handkerchiefs dipped in scent and hold them to their noses, as the coach rumbles its way slowly through the mass of coach and wagon traffic and people crowding the streets. From the look on Miss Boston’s face, I do not think the scent works all that well.

‘I fear the odour gets worse every year,’ she announces, shaking her head in disapproval.

‘Indeed,’ replies the Captain, being polite, but not continuing the conversation.

I try holding my nose, but it does no good, and I nearly pass out from lack of air. I wonder how the locals can live with it.

Small boats ferry passengers upriver towards Perth. Cargo ships are moored against a long, wide jetty, with scores of masts and rigging lost against the buildings and a steep limestone hill. A small steamship spews out thick black smoke from its stack. Just as well the Dragon crew are not here with us, I decide. They all hate steamers. There are even more of the horrible iron ships anchored offshore between the mainland and an island.

The smell soon fades, but the noises of the street grow louder. It could have woken the Devil himself from the very depths of Hell. In all directions the sound of metal wheel hoops on the rough gravel streets rattle, screech and grind along.

The coach rolls towards the central part of town. High on the hill overlooking the town the infamous Fremantle Prison, looking more like a castle from Ivanhoe, looms like a spectre. On the street below the hill, canvas-covered stalls laden with vegetables, fish hanging by their tails and dead rabbits, and carts with clothing, pots, knives and wicker brooms line the street into the town centre. Stall keepers all yell hoarsely as they try to flog their wares.

The coach makes its way along, the horses trotting quickly. The driver yells and people on foot leap out of the way as he is clearly not stopping for anyone who doesn’t move. Ten minutes later, he wheels the horse team away from the outskirts and directly into the town.

A huge town hall and rows of neat shops line a dead straight street leading to an octagonal sandstone building high on a hill near the water’s edge. Flags and a black time-ball waiting for the one o’clock cannon are attached to a ship’s mast in its courtyard. Further on, massive brick wool warehouses, magnificent hotels and really grand buildings line every other street.

I notice a surprising number of beggars slumped miserably in doorways, staring blankly or pleadingly at us as we pass by. In a vacant block between two warehouses, a team of prisoners dressed in drab prison clothes is cutting limestone building blocks without enthusiasm. Further on, by a circular horse trough, a gang of boys is fighting. One has landed in the water, ending the fight with wild laughter.

Three worn-out looking women displaying their legs shout at us as we pass by. Miss Boston and Miss Barnett look particularly shocked and turn their faces away from the window.

The sun is fading, but it seems later than it is as the smoke-filled air from countless chimneys and fires darkens the sky.

Can this really be the Fremantle people have talked so enthusiastically about? I am disappointed, after all the stories I have heard. I had imagined it to be a glittering, wonderful city full of rich and attractive people, but now as far as I can see from the coach window, the place is just a bigger, smellier version of Broome. Where are all the attractive people, especially the pretty girls?

‘Welcome to Fremantle, Red. The most wonderful city on earth.’

‘Sir?’ I ask, screwing my face up in disbelief.

‘As Dr Johnson might have said, a man who is tired of Fremantle is tired of life,’ replies the Captain.

‘Are we talking about the same Fremantle?’ I ask, incredulously. ‘Is this Dr Johnson blind and deaf, or just a complete idiot?’

The Captain laughs, just as the coach slows, turns into a narrow street and begins wheeling through open gates in a high wall and into a large courtyard. ‘The famous doctor had obviously never been here, of course. No, he was actually talking about London.’

I look out the window. One day, when I am older, I plan to travel to London. I sure hope it is more glittering than what I can see outside.

‘The Esplanade Hotel,’ he announces as we halt.

I look about, this time more impressed. The hotel is enormous and modern.

‘Here we must part. Miss Boston, Miss Barnett, I bid you farewell,’ says the Captain, bowing his head as he helps the two women down the coach steps.

The ladies make their way across the yard to a smart looking carriage with a black-coated coach driver. Miss Boston turns and looks back somewhat wistfully, before being whisked away.

Loud noises suddenly came from the hotel as the back door opens and a man stumbles out, obviously on his way to the cesspit.

‘The way he’s reeling about he’ll be lucky not to fall right in,’ laughs the Captain.

‘That wouldn’t be a very dignified way to die either would it, Captain?’ I too laugh at the terrible thought of it. Can you imagine? Falling head first into a foul cesspit. And judging by the smell coming from the Esplanade’s cesspit near the far wall, it would have to be the size of a billabong.

‘That’s the door we want,’ he adds, pointing to where the man just came from.

THE ESPLANADE

The hotel is crowded to bursting and with a louder racket than Ma’s hotel at flinging-out time on a Saturday night. I almost have to shout to be heard over the noise.

Although the hotel looks new, above our heads solid beams blackened with smoke make the ceiling seem low. A long bar laden with firkins and jugs fills one wall. Every one of the polished jarrah benches in the congested room overflows with men drinking and laughing. Just outside the front door, a park surrounded by a white picket fence leads to a beach of white sand and the nearby sea. More warehouses and boatyards line the shore.

The Captain looks about in the dim light of the smoke-filled room and nods to several people he recognises, before resting his hand on my shoulder. ‘If there are no beds available, you might have to bunk in with the landlady’s daughter. A comely lass she is too. Right about your age.’

The landlady appears from out of the gloom. She is an attractive, well-rounded woman with a massive, barely covered bosom. I suddenly remember what the men on the Dragon had said about the women of Fremantle having no tops to their dresses. ‘The famous Captain James Bowen, as I live and breathe, at my humble establishment? My, we are honoured,’ she says with what seems to be genuine affection.

Her humble establishment takes up a whole city block, making it the biggest and busiest building I have ever been in. It makes the Smuggler’s Curse look like an outhouse.

‘And who’s this then?’ she asks, grabbing both my cheeks like an auntie would and giving them a squeeze. I can feel myself blushing all the way down to my toes.

‘Nell Underwood, it is my pleasure to introduce young master Read, Red Read, my secretary and accountant, all rolled into one,’ announces the Captain, rather proudly, I think. ‘He’s one of my crew, and his mother owns a hotel up in Broome, my second favourite, after this one, of course. The Smuggler’s Curse.’

‘You’ve spoke of him in the past. The boy must have prospects then,’ she continues, laughing all the time. ‘How about we marry him off to my Emma? They’d make a lovely couple, don’t you think? Give him a few more years. What do you say, boy? That’s her over there, serving that table in the corner.’ She points to a dark-haired girl holding two glasses of beer and joking along with the men at the table. ‘Like the look of her?’

Like the look of her? Emma is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my entire life. She has long dark hair, sparkling eyes, rosy cheeks and what Ma would call a shapely figure. I try not to stare, but I can’t take my eyes off her.

‘I told Red he might have to bunk in with Emma tonight, if there are no beds free,’ continues the Captain, with not even a slight grin on his face.

I look at the Captain in horror. He can’t mean it, can he? I have hardly ever even talked with girls my own age. I wouldn’t even know what to say to a real girl, especially one so pretty. My mouth turns all dry.

‘If he does, he’ll be bunking in with me and my sharpest carving knife between them, until my Emma has been churched and blessed and has a ring on her finger.’ She laughs. ‘Unless he comes with no less than a thousand pounds a year, then that might be a different matter altogether,’ she continues, still enjoying my discomfort.

‘But … I’m only … I’m too young …’ I stammer like a lunatic.

‘Emma!’ shouts Mrs Underwood, her voice filling the room and echoing off the back wall. ‘Come and meet your new husband.’

‘Oh, Ma,’ shouts back Emma. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy? You marry him instead if he’s such a good catch.’

One of the men at the table she has just served suddenly jumps to his feet. He pulls a knife from his belt and slams the point into the table. ‘I want to marry Emma!’ he yells, defiantly.

‘You’re already married, you drunken fool,’ laughs Emma, smacking him on the back of the head with her hand.

The man bursts out laughing. ‘Tell ya’ what, boy, buy me a drink, and you can keep ’er. And you can have me wife ’n’ all as a bonus.’

Emma looks me over. ‘Tell him I’ll marry him in the morning.’

Not surprisingly after supper, I do not end up sleeping in Mrs Underwood’s bed inches away from the beautiful Emma. I sleep alone in a tiny box room above the kitchen. Fortunately, it is located beside a chimney, so I feel as warm as toast all night.

I wake with the sun and wonder what time would be right to go back downstairs. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I bend down to pull on my shoes, noticing that most of my muscles ache from the previous day’s journey.

After washing my face in the bowl on a small table, I creep down the stairs to the main room. All is quiet. Someone must be up, though, as I can smell the familiar aroma of boiling oats cooking above the stink of stale beer and spilt ale, and the whiff of overflowing cesspit outside by the courtyard wall. It smells just like home on a regular Sunday morning.

The fireplace in the main room still has a few glowing coals, so I blow on them and start a small fire with kindling from the box beside the hearth.

‘You’ve done that more than once before.’

I look up, startled. I had not heard her walk in. ‘Emma,’ I stumbled. ‘I, er …’

‘I thought you might like some porridge. And we have some right tasty cheese. The others won’t be up for ages yet.’ She brings a tray holding several bowls and sets it down on a nearby table.

‘My mam says you live at a hotel as well?’ she asks, cutting the end off a loaf of bread.

‘The Smuggler’s Curse,’ I reply. ‘Up in Broome. It’s small, measured to this place. There’s just me and my ma to run it, though I’ve been away with Captain Bowen of late. Adventuring,’ I add, to make myself sound more interesting.

‘Just like me,’ she says, smiling. ‘There’s only me and my mam.’

‘Your father died?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know. Mam has never said. Nor never mentioned him. He could have been the governor for all I know.’

‘Probably not him,’ I say, smiling. ‘According to all, he is as ugly as a box of pox and you are really pretty…’ I stop, suddenly remembering it is not a bunch of sailors I am talking to. ‘I mean, as ugly as …’

She giggles, not seeming to notice my language.

‘You won’t tell?’ I ask.

‘Not unless he comes in here himself and pays me well. The governor, I mean. Then I might be tempted. Do you really think I’m pretty?’ she asks.

I smile awkwardly, and feel myself blushing again, not knowing how to respond. I have not been in this situation before. ‘Your mam and the Captain seem pretty friendly,’ I say, eventually.

‘They always have been, ever since I can remember. He’s good to us, your Captain. Buys me presents and pretty things, he does, every time he comes down from Broome. Ribbons and the like. He brought me a lovely ivory comb once. All the way from China. Can you imagine, China? And a bolt of silk for Mam.’

‘He’s good to me as well,’ I reply. ‘Really good. And to the crew. None of them will have a bad word said against him, ever though he can be pretty hard.’ My mind flashes back over the recent weeks and the dreadful fate of several men who have crossed the Captain.

‘How long are you staying?’ asks Emma, changing the subject. She sounds as if she really cares.

‘I don’t know. A couple of days or so I suppose. Until our cargo is sold, probably. Maybe you could show me about Fremantle while we’re waiting?’ I ask, hopefully. Maybe I’ve just missed the glittering part of town.

‘I’d like that,’ she replies, smiling shyly. I am surprised as Emma doesn’t seem the least bit shy.

‘Would we need a chaperone, though?’ I ask. ‘Being as we’re …’

‘Only if we were courting,’ Emma answers, sounding slightly hopeful, I hope.

‘That should be fine then, seeing we’re not. Besides, I’m too young for …’

‘Too young for what, Red?’ The Captain stands in the doorway, his hands braced against the frame and looking little better than if he had just been trampled by a horse.

‘Courting, Captain.’

‘You are right about that, Red. Too young, and definitely too busy,’ he replies, amused. ‘You and me, we have plans. We need to make your fortune first before you can even think about courting.’

I shrug and sigh quietly. Making me a fortune sounds like an excellent idea. A most admirable idea if ever I’ve heard one.

THE STRANGER

By mid-afternoon, the Esplanade has filled again. Forequarter, a huge man and the hotel tosser-outer, sits by the door, his eyes dart around the room watching like a hawk.

Seconds after the tall clock in the corner chimes five, the whole room suddenly falls silent. I look about, wondering what has caused the change. Forequarter walks towards us, holding a visitor’s card in his large hand. At the door, a group of men wait, watching him. Two are in coach drivers’ coats, but it is obvious they have pistols under their clothes. Another is dressed in a suit, all washed, pressed and polished up like a lawyer and carrying a satchel. The fourth, his head high and aloof, is dressed in moleskins, with a dark green coat of the finest wool draped over his shoulders. I notice, too, he wears boots just like the ones I rescued from the dead Dutch officer, Vetter, tall, polished and very expensive.

‘Captain Bowen, sir,’ says Forequarter. ‘Sorry to be of a bother, sir, but a visitor would like to be joining you, with your permission, he says. Here’s his card. He’s a nob rights enough. A gentleman cocky from the looks of him. A proper nob’s nob from the bush I’d say.’

The Captain takes the card, glances at it, smiles and nods. ‘Of course, Mr Forequarter. Can I ask you to escort him to our table?’

I stand when the group approach, just like my mother has taught me to and wait for the Captain’s lead.

The toff clasps the Captain’s open palm. ‘James,’ he says, warmly. ‘It’s been some time, cousin.’

‘Indeed, Simon, much to my regret. I hope you are well. And Caroline? She is well, too?’ the Captain replies.

‘She is, indeed, very well, and she sends you her fondest personal regards and hopes you will be able to visit her next time you are near Kalgan Creek.’

Kalgan Creek? Even I have heard of that. Kalgan Creek is a massive farm out of Albany, down south. It can only mean that this man is Simon Turner, the famous landowner and probably the richest man in the colony. He owns lots of the farmland on the south coast all the way inland for miles and miles, even more than a man can ride in one day. And he’s Captain Bowen’s cousin?

The Captain indicates the spare chairs, and Simon Turner and the man in the suit, who turns out to be Joshua Kimberley, his farm manager, sit and lean forward so no one can overhear the conversation.

The noise in the room gradually increases as the other men go back to their own business.

The Captain introduces me as his secretary, and Mr Turner shakes my hand, the first time any of the farming elite has ever done such a thing. I sit there amazed, not believing the situation. Simon Turner? I would be less impressed if the Governor came in.

‘I’ve heard from my sources you’ve had several offers so far,’ says Mr Turner.

‘Yes, but I’ve been holding. Family obligations and all, Simon, and your well-known taste for only the finest. This, cousin, is the very finest Scotch Whisky ever made. Every bottle is worth more than its weight in gold. I can guarantee it on my mother’s grave.’

‘Your mother’s grave? James Bowen, you old villain, your mother stayed at Kalgan Creek only a month ago. And in fine and fair health she was too.’

The Captain grins, the same smile that wins over most people.

‘I suspect the real reason you have been holding out,’ continues Mr Turner, ‘is that no one else in the colony has the capital for such a deal.’

‘Well, in general you would be right, Simon, though I have to admit I did receive a note of inquiry just this morning from the son of a certain individual of high rank, the highest in the colony. He is a gentleman who must remain nameless, of course …’

Although he tries to hide it, Mr Turner looks shocked, though not as shocked as me. It could only be the Governor’s son. The Governor’s son is hoping to do a deal with the colony’s most famous smuggler? Can it be? What a scandal would erupt if it was discovered.

Mr Turner suddenly seems to lose interest in haggling, and does the deal there and then, with a handshake and, of course, no paperwork at all. ‘And to think,’ he says. ‘Instead of us coming all the way to Fremantle we could have done this in my drawing room at Kalgan Creek.’

‘Indeed. I’d have rather made that journey. And paid my respects to Caroline in person. Still, shall we say delivery on the first of the month, depending on weather conditions?’ asks the Captain, as the two men stand.

Mr Turner agrees.

‘You may contact me,’ says Joshua Kimberly. ‘For any arrangements you may need. There is the new telegraph, Perth to Albany line, to send messages. The wonders of the modern age, eh? Your good health, sir.’

‘And yours, gentlemen.’

They nod then turn and stride to the door, ignoring everyone about them in the room.

Something is bothering me. I have been sitting with the Captain all day and the only message delivered to him was the one from Mr Turner. ‘Have you really had a note from the Governor’s son?’ I ask.

‘Not yet,’ grins the Captain. ‘But it is not as if Simon can actually check, can he?’

‘I suppose not. It could be awkward,’ I agree.

‘Awkward? How do you ask the Governor’s son if he’s receiving smuggled goods and cheating good Queen Victoria out of her taxes?’

‘Did we get a good price, sir? From Mr Turner?’

‘Let us just say, Red, that with your share, at this precise moment, you are the richest ship’s boy in all the Australian colonies, and probably the world.’

I blink in total astonishment. ‘Rich? Will I still have to go to school?’ I ask, hopefully.

‘Red, you can buy your own damn school if you wish. And you can be your own headmaster!’

‘That sounds like fun,’ I laugh.

‘Anything else you want to spend your money on while we are here in Fremantle?’

‘I would like some new clothes,’ I reply, looking down at my worn out breeches. ‘Maybe some long pants?’ I do not add so that when I came back to Fremantle again I can impress Emma. Also, I think I would like to buy her a present, maybe something expensive and exotic from a faraway place.

‘Perhaps we might visit my tailor and let him measure you up before we head back to Broome.’

I like the sound of that. Brand new specially made clothes all of my own. Up until now, I have only ever worn cut down clothes made from ones accidentally left at the Curse.

‘We’ll head to High Street tomorrow. It’s not far.’

The street name sounded very familiar. ‘High Street?’ I ask. ‘High Street, Fremantle? That’s where Ma buys my books from. The bookseller sends them up to me. Shepherds of High Street. Can we go there, Captain? I’d like to see it. Mr Shepherd writes to me sometimes. I could meet him.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ he replies. ‘Which books do you want to buy?’

‘All of them. Do I have enough money for that?’ I ask.

‘Red, you have enough to buy the whole shop — books, walls, roof and all.’

I like the sound of that too.

HEADING SOUTH

It has been a good few days in Fremantle, having new clothes and new boots just like the Captain’s made, buying books from Mr Shepherd, as well as having fancy meals in hotels. On Friday night, a week later, the Captain hires a large skiff and crew to ferry us out ten miles or more to the far side of Garden Island where the Black Dragon is moored. It is waiting for us in Pig Trough Bay, at the seaward side of the island. Just as it grows dark, we set off and head westwards towards the island. As we get close to the bay, we can see the outline of the Dragon but no lights shine and the ship seems deserted.

‘Captain, why couldn’t the Dragon meet us at the jetty at Fremantle?’ I ask as the skiff reaches the heavier swell on the far western side of the island. I am feeling mighty uncomfortable, and it is not just the increased rocking of the small boat.

‘The cargo, Red. Customs,’ he replies, quietly. ‘We need to keep well out of their way, nosey wombats. One whiff of that duty-free whisky and every Customs Johnnie wanting to make a name for himself, and every robber who ever lived, would be all over us like a swarm of blowflies on a cowpat.’

The skiff pulls alongside the Dragon and I grab the ladder. I hear the Captain click the hammer on his Colt. He too must be suspicious. I scramble up the ladder and on board.

Standing by the rail and nervously looking about, I feel my heart quicken. The Dragon is eerily empty. The only sounds are a sheet slapping against the mast and the waves quietly splashing against the hull. Oh God, what has happened? Have the Customs officers captured all the crew? Or worse, killed them all? But would they? Suddenly, I hear a noise from the stern right by the helm. Against the sunset, I can make out the shape of someone holding a gun. Then a dozen more figures appear from the shadows, all pointing Martini-Henry rifle barrels directly at me.

‘Don’t shoot, it’s me, Red.’ I say, pathetically.

‘Well, Mister Read, I ’ardly recognise you all dressed up like a pox doctor’s clerk. We wouldn’t want to fill that flash new coat full of ’oles, would we?’ laughs Mr Smith lowering his gun. ‘That’d be a waste of good cloth, that would.’

I am grateful that the colours of the sunset hide my red face.

‘Captain?’ asks the Bosun.

‘Good news, men,’ he says with a broad smile. ‘Very good news. I think I may have done the deal of this century, and maybe the next one as well. We head south.’

We sail south-west then south-east, tacking towards Cape Leeuwin, the south-western tip of the continent where the Indian and Southern Oceans meet, and where the wind the old timers call the Roaring Forties blows ships along at breakneck speeds, often, unfortunately, straight into icebergs.

Two days later we see the lighthouse, tall and as solid as the rocks on which it stands, at the tip of the land. We go about, trim the sails and turn south-east and then later in the day, due east, hitting the wild wind. The old timers were not wrong. The wind screams, threatening to rip out the masts, wreck the ship and kill us all.

‘All canvas!’ yells Bosun Stevenson in spite of the typhoon-like wind. Once he has all the sails raised and trimmed just as he wants, the Dragon’s bow lifts and she fairly skips across the surface of the waves, falling into the troughs, and surging out again in a regular motion.

‘Look at that!’ says Mr Smith, looking back at the white wake racing from the stern of the Dragon. ‘Faster than a steam train.’

I have only seen a steam train once, and it stood still puffing smoke and steam at Fremantle Station, so I have to take his word for it.

‘What’s this bay called, Captain?’ I ask as the crew finally lower the sails, stealing the Dragon’s wind. The anchor chain rattles and the anchor splashes as it plunges to the ocean floor.

‘It doesn’t have a name. It’s not even on some charts, it is so well hidden. The early American whalers knew about it, though. There are a couple of old harpoons and blubber pots in the caves on the shore, and whale skeletons scattered about. Bones everywhere.’ He smiles at me. ‘We could name it ourselves. What about Whalers’ Cove?’ He pauses for a moment, thinking. ‘Or how about Red’s Cove? How would that suit?’

‘That would suit very well Captain. Red’s Cove,’ I repeat, thoughtfully.

The Captain smiles. ‘What say you, Bosun, Red’s Cove?’

The Bosun just grunts.

‘You know,’ continues the Captain. ‘There is Red Bluff way up the coast. And we sailed past Redgate yesterday. I should have pointed it out. The coastal steamer Georgette is sunk just off the beach there. It sprung a leak and was beached in a storm not half as bad as the ones we’ve been though just on this voyage.’

ACROSS THE CLIFFS

We carry the whisky boxes up from the hold and lower them down into the dinghy, before ferrying them ashore to a shallow cave in the cliff. We have to wait for the right tide, and it takes trip after trip in the small boat. The slim sandy beach against the cliff where we need to land the cargo can only be reached at low tide, as it is underwater for half a day. Even then, guiding the dinghy between the rocks takes a lot of skill, but Bosun Stevenson manoeuvres the dinghy so it lands in much the same spot each time no matter how much the sea swells and surges.

Then we wait. And wait. The weather is miserable. The wind is unrelenting and the rain comes in sheets. I have never been so cold in all my life.

Finally, on the third day, just on sunset, Briggs calls to the Captain.

A big man wearing a black skipper’s hat has appeared through the rain, stepping from a gap in the rocks at the cliff base and onto the narrow beach. A group of men leading a train of donkeys quickly appear behind him.

The Captain strides forward with his hand out, a broad smile on his face. ‘Baxter, you old reprobate. You got my telegram then?’

‘What I could understand of it,’ he answers. ‘Some sort of code. It took ages to figure out.’

‘Well, I couldn’t very well announce my plans to the telegraphist could I? He would have been up and across the road to the constables before the machine stopped dotting and dashing,’ laughs the Captain.

‘No, I suppose not,’ Baxter answers. ‘You made good time then, Bowen?’

‘The winds down this way are astonishing,’ says the Captain. ‘A bathtub would make record time.’

He isn’t joking. The winds on the south coast never let up, blowing in the mornings from inland and then cold from the south-west, straight off Antarctica, every afternoon, every day.

We load the train of donkeys with the boxes, four crates lashed to each side. At least all the work warms me up a little. As the last one is tied on, and we are about to head out and away from the cave and through the cutting in the rock, I catch the Captain’s eye.

‘Captain?’ I ask. ‘Where are we headed?’

‘Albany,’ he answers.

‘But we’re nowhere near Albany. I’ve seen the chart. It’s miles away.’

‘Think about it, Red,’ he replies. ‘We can’t very well sail into Albany harbour with a cargo load of illegal whisky, can we? The authorities would be all over us like a medieval plague. In this cove, the Dragon is well protected and hidden from passing ships and there is not much directly inland from here. It’s a bit of a trek along the coast, but it’ll be worth it. Believe me, it’ll be well worth it.’

We head through the rocks in single file and onto a slippery pathway that rises steeply upwards and out on to the very edge of the cliff.

Even if he had tried for a whole year, the Captain could not have picked a better night than this wretched one for avoiding the Customs officers, or anyone at all, come to that. I am sure no one else would have been out on the edge of this slippery cliff in such horrendous weather, for all the gold in Bendigo.

Lightning flashes directly overhead and the cracks of thunder shake our souls to the very core. Freezing rain lashes sideways, threatening to blow us down onto the jagged rocks below. In the bright white flashes, we can glimpse enormous white waves relentlessly pounding the cliffs, the roar of the water making it almost impossible to be heard.

The track is far too close to the edge for my liking. One wrong step will be rewarded with nothing but thin air all the way to the maelstrom roaring below us.

I can just see the Captain up ahead waiting for me to catch up, his oilskin blowing away from his legs. His hat has been pulled down low over his ears. ‘Tread carefully, Red,’ he shouts. ‘There’s another creek washing over the path up ahead. It’ll wash your feet from under you if you let it. And over the edge you’ll go.’

‘I’m hanging on, Captain,’ I call. I do not need telling twice as my survival instinct works very well.

‘And if the donkeys slip and start to fall, don’t try to stop them. With their weight, they’ll take you over the edge with them.’

That is fine with me. I had already decided that no snorting donkey is going to get me killed.

Ordinarily, the donkeys would be roped together end to end, and led by one man, but with such a valuable cargo, the Captain doesn’t want one to go over the edge and drag the whole line over as well. Luckily, the donkeys seem to be more surefooted than the men.

Just as I am thinking that, another lightning flash lights up the sky. I can see the white skeletons of what can only have been several donkeys scattered on a rocky ledge. The ribs of a man picked clean by seabirds could just as easily have been among them.

The thunderclap that instantly follows the lightning is so sudden and so earsplitting that it takes me by surprise. I jerk involuntarily and lose my footing. My boots shoot out from under me in the slimy, oily mud and I slide straight towards the cliff’s edge. I yell out in panic. There is nothing to grab hold of to stop me going right over. In a second, I will be off the path and plummetting down towards the skeletons on the ledge. I yell again in terror as my feet shoot out in midair. Oh God, I am right off the edge of the cliff. I’m falling.

‘Red! Red!’ The Captain’s voice is pure panic, the last sound I will ever hear.

The donkey’s guide rope burns through my palm, just like the mainsail sheet during the typhoon. I plunge down. Down. And jerk to a halt, nearly ripping my arm from my shoulder.

‘Ahhh!’

The rope has a knot in the end stopping my slide. I grab the rope with both hands, my legs kicking wildly in the air, desperately trying to find a foothold that isn’t there. The rope whips back and forward as the braying donkey shakes it’s head violently, trying desperately to get rid of me.

It would be so unfair to die now, in a stupid accident, having survived this far.

‘Red,’ Captain Bowen yells again, but more calmly this time. ‘Hang on. I’ll haul you up. Don’t let go, whatever you do.’

With one hand clutching the donkey’s bridle to settle it, the Captain leans out over the cliff and heaves me one-handed straight up and into his arms in a single movement. He crushes me against his chest as I shiver and shake until the horrors slowly ease.

‘Cap… Cap… Captain,’ I stammer, too shocked to speak properly.

‘Don’t do that to me again, Red,’ he whispers hoarsely. ‘We’ve come too far to lose you now.’

I nod my head, still not quite believing how perilously close I have just come to certain death. Below, another massive wave smashes into the cliff, sending spray flying, just to remind me of my lucky escape.

All night the trek continues, the slippery, rain-sodden track continuously rising up the side of the cliff until eventually it begins to level out. I take every single step carefully for the rest of the journey. Finally, as the feeble glow of dawn starts to reflect off the sea, and after one of the longest, most miserable nights of my life, my legs and my palm aching, we change direction, heading downwards and inland.

I sigh with relief as the path flattens out. We are now heading gradually downhill on a wider but even muddier path. Several times, I slip and land on my knees as my feet become stuck in the black, treacle-like mess. My new clothes and boots are never going to be the same again.

‘Look!’ calls Briggs. A faint light flickers in the distance, and I make out the silhouette of a building at the edge of a rock-lined cove. This one is even more hidden. It is just like a bottleneck with the entrance obscured behind jagged boulders. Waves crash against the rocks throwing up white spray. As we grow closer, we see a hut made of local granite set back from a rocky beach, surrounded by more massive boulders. No one could come across this concealed building by accident.

The light glows from a window beside a solid-looking front door and looks warm and inviting. I can think of nothing better than getting inside that room out of the driving rain and tucking up by a roasting fire.

The Captain bangs on the door and moments later, it is flung open by an enormous woman. ‘Well, blow me down, Captain James Bowen, you gorgeous man,’ she chirps. ‘We’ve been expecting you. Thought the Customs Johnnies had finally done for you. Starting to get a mite worried, I was.’ She looks out over the Captain’s shoulder at the weather. ‘But if ever there was a night you’d come, this’d be the one. Blacker than a bishop’s heart, it sure is.’

She stands filling the doorway, so fat she almost blocks out the light behind her.

The Captain pulls off his glove, reaches for her hand, leans forward, and kisses it delicately. ‘Mrs Baxter. You’re looking as lovely as ever. And, unfortunately, your old crook of a husband is not at the end of a noose yet, so I’m destined to remain a bachelor. Though I see they’d need a thicker hanging rope these days,’ he says. ‘You’ve been feeding him well these past few months.’

‘Where is that hopeless excuse for a man?’

As she says it, Mr Baxter, the hopeless excuse, arrives. He had been leading the last donkey in the line.

‘Get a move on,’ she calls, ‘so the Captain can come in out of the weather and I can shut this damn door! I’d rather be curled up by my fireplace with this charming creature than looking at your ugly mug any day. So help me that be the truth. Well, best get them donkeys in the stable, then get yourselves inside here for a warming ale.’

THE TREASURE TROVE

To the side of the house, a stable has been built right against the cliff. It doesn’t look anywhere big enough for our train of donkeys.

Mr Baxter appears holding a flickering lantern aloft.

‘Help me with the door, boy.’

It opens outwards, so I grab the edge and heave. The door creaks open on big, rusting hinges. Inside, beyond several empty horseboxes and piles of hay, at the back wall, another timber door covers the rock face.

‘Give me a hand with this one too, boy,’ Mr Baxter commands. ‘It’s on rollers. This way.’

Together, we haul the heavy door sideways. I am surprised to see it covers an enormous cavern carved into the cliff face. In the lantern light, I make out a space the size of a shearing shed, full of barrels, drums, trunks and boxes of all sizes. They fill the walls on all three sides.

‘My favourite location, this treasure trove,’ says the Captain, admiringly. ‘As safe as the Bank of England. You can’t get a boat into the cove unless you know it well. More than one skipper who tried has had his keel ripped out from under him on jagged rocks just beneath the surface out there. And the only track in is the one we just took along the cliffs, and only fools and suicides want to follow that.’

He is not wrong there, especially about the fools.

‘Then how do we get the cargo out again, Captain?’ I ask.

‘There’s a hidden track through the rocks and inland. You reveal that at your life’s peril.’

‘That you do, boy, at your life’s certain peril,’ growls Baxter, sliding his finger across his throat, menacingly.

‘He’s one of us, Baxter. Most definitely. Aren’t you, Red?’ says the Captain.

I nod enthusiastically.

‘He’s Mary Read’s boy, you remember? From the Smuggler’s Curse up in Broome,’ continues the Captain.

Baxter peers closer at me for a second. ‘I’d hardly know you, looking like that,’ he says, his tone suddenly much friendlier. ‘You’re Mary Read’s son then? Well, I’ll be. Look at youse, grown. Almost a man. I remember you as a wee boy, not that long ago when I was last in Broome. The Captain, he’s been working youse hard then since I last saw you, eh? Making a seaman of you, eh?’

‘Should I live long enough,’ I reply.

‘Stick with Black Bowen and it’ll improve your chances of getting to manhood, to my way of thinking,’ continues Baxter.

‘I don’t know about that,’ replies the Captain. ‘We’ve had a few tense moments this journey, haven’t we Red? More than a few close shaves. Pirates out of Malaya trying to blow us to kingdom come, and then a whole army of Dutchmen trying to skewer our gizzards.’

‘At least God is an Englishman,’ laughs Baxter, ‘and spared you.’

‘He must indeed be. And a colonial Englishman at that. We’ve survived so far, and Red has shown plenty of backbone.’

I feel myself blushing, which makes me blush even more, so I busy myself with the unloading.

‘Littlemill Distillery,’ says the Captain to Baxter. ‘Smoother than silk. Slips down a treat. Though it would want to. It took the Devil’s own sweat obtaining it, this cargo did.’

‘Littlemill?’ queries Baxter, suddenly impressed. ‘You haven’t? You haven’t found the fabled lost shipment? You have got to be pulling my tail. Is it as good as the legend says? Or do I need to use my imagination?’

‘I’ll exchange you a bottle for a decent fry up from your good lady wife,’ replies the Captain.

‘Mind that it is only breakfast she serves you up. She has always had a soft spot for you, young Bowen.’

‘It’s not good manners to stir the ashes of another man’s fireplace, even on such a cold morning as this,’ laughs the Captain. ‘Eggs and bacon will be sufficient. That’ll warm me amply.’

‘Youse’ll do well to remember that,’ says Baxter, smiling broadly but holding up a clenched fist.

‘We’ll rest here until nightfall, with your permission, of course,’ says the Captain, changing the subject. ‘Then it’s off to Kalgan Creek to unload most of …’

‘Kalgan Creek? You sold the Littlemills to Simon Turner?’

‘His sort gets as thirsty as the best of us,’ continues the Captain. ‘More so. And he has the contacts with the shipping companies heading east to Melbourne and Sydney. He’ll be able to on-sell the lot for the most handsome profit. Besides, Simon and I are old school chums. Thick as a lump of coal he was, back then at school, but he had enough sense to marry Caroline Fortescue. Lovely woman that she is.’

‘Wasn’t she one of your … er, conquests, Bowen? asks Baxter. ‘I seem to remember …’

‘Blow me down, a man’s reputation is a hard-won thing. And lost on a mere rumour. See you remember that, Red. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit and lost without deserving.’

‘Is she pretty, Captain?’ I ask daringly, ignoring his Shakespearean quote.

‘Cheeky knave, isn’t he,’ says Baxter.

‘I let our Red have plenty of rope,’ says the Captain. ‘He’s saved our bacon on several occasions.’

‘And that is not the only reason,’ someone at the back of the store shed mutters, quietly.

‘Now, speaking of bacon …’ continues the Captain, ignoring the comment.

FRENCHMAN BAY

We wait, resting, until the afternoon, before reloading the donkeys and leading them out towards Kalgan Creek. ‘It’ll be getting dark by the time we reach Frenchman Bay Settlement, across the water from Albany,’ announces the Captain as we set off. ‘But keep your wits about you meanwhile. Frenchman Bay, then Kalgan Creek, and then home.’

Home! After all these hair-raising weeks, I will soon be seeing Ma and everyone at the Curse again. I can feel my footsteps getting lighter and the weight of tiredness coming off my shoulders. Then I remember we still have to cross miles of countryside with a donkey train loaded with a king’s ransom in illegal cargo, and possibly a regiment of Customs officers after us.

Luckily, the rain has stopped, but the track we trudge along as we leave the store shed and head inland continues as slippery as the path the night before. On both sides of the track, the breeze blows patterns in paddocks of green wheat stalks. They seem to spread out forever. I have never seen anything like this before. It is so completely different from home. In the distance, massive trees as high as windjammer masts point skywards. With the grey, cold rain, the mud and the green fields, this part of the world is more foreign to me than Sumatra and Singapore.

Within a hundred yards, one of my boots sticks in the black, clinging mud and I topple forward, ending up flat on my face.

‘Red,’ laughs Mr Smith, ‘I remember when youse first come on board the Dragon youse couldn’t stay on your feet then neither.’

We trudge through a forest of enormously high trees with bush on either side so thick that hardly any light penetrates. It is as if midnight has arrived hours early.

‘Not long now, lad,’ continues Mr Smith, leading the donkey behind me.

The forest clears and the track opens into a wheat paddock surrounded by the tall Karri trees, with one mighty one near the centre that the loggers must have missed. They have cut down vast swathes of forest since settlement. I read at school that thousands of massive trees have been felled and turned into railway sleepers in foreign countries, making people like Mr Turner even richer, as if that is at all possible.

At the edge of the paddock, a farmhouse stands derelict, the walls covered with moss and lichen. In the fading light and swirling evening mist, and with its roof missing, the old house reminds me of a dead man’s skull, with the vacant windows like eyeholes. Behind the house, half-a-dozen blackened gravestones stand like a row of rotting teeth. I shiver and pat my donkey’s neck, mostly to reassure myself I suspect.

‘You won’t want to be here later,’ says Briggs, teasing me. ‘A graveyard in the dark. Spooky noises. Ghosts and ghouls, eh, Red. Scared?’

‘No,’ I reply unconvincingly. ‘It’s just that …’ I cannot help wonder whose graves they actually are. No names have survived on the weathered stones.

‘It’s not ghosts that’ll be the death of us,’ interrupts the Captain, turning to look back, ‘but Customs officers. And other gangs. Let’s just hope word hasn’t got out.’

‘Mr Smith?’ continues the Captain. ‘The rest of us will wait here but can I ask you to skip ahead and scout about. Take Red with you, and keep your heads down. If you see anything, send him back to report.’

The wheat crop stands high, thick and green. Bent double, Mr Smith and I make our way towards a small hill scattered with large, granite boulders.

‘If they is going to be anywhere, there is the spot,’ says Mr Smith quietly, pointing ahead to the outcrop.

Mr Smith and I change direction, and head up the hill, giving the outcrop a wide berth and taking each step carefully so as not to make a noise just in case someone is waiting in ambush. I can feel the familiar dread rising as, once again, my heart starts beating more loudly. I remind myself I am about to become a very wealthy young smuggler and I feel a bit ashamed for being such a coward and not willing to take a few chances for all the riches. But who wants to be the richest person in the graveyard?

We smell them before we see them, the smoke from their pipes and stale sweat drifting up towards us. They are down the slope from us gathered by the outcrop just as Mr Smith predicted.

‘It’s them Frenchman Bay mongrels. The Dickson mob,’ whispers Mr Smith. ‘That big one at the back, near the over’angin’ rock? Couldn’t miss ’im nowhere. Jed Dickson ’e is. A pox on ’im.’

Mr Smith and I can see seven men behind the boulders. Jed Dickson has a pistol at the ready and leans forward, balancing his weight on his elbows. At least three of the others have slumped forward, across the boulders, obviously asleep. One is even lying on the ground snoring.

‘Shall I go for the Captain?’ I whisper.

‘Hmmm,’ says Mr Smith. ‘No, no need to bother ’im. We can ’andle this.’

‘We can?’ I ask, incredulously. ‘There’re only two of us.’

‘And only seven useless fools. Look at ’em. ’opeless. Just watch me back, Red, like the Cap’n learned you.’

I pull my Colt from my belt and ease back the hammer, covering it with my left palm to muffle the click.

Mr Smith looks back to make sure I am ready, and then charges towards the granite boulders, stops and rams the end of his rifle right into Jed Dickson’s bum. Dickson jerks upright, his eyes nearly bulging from his face.

‘What in the name of…’ he roars.

‘Tell ya brothers to lay down their guns,’ hisses Mr Smith. ‘Right now, or so ’elp me, I’ll blow ya gizzards all over this ’ere rock.’

One of the Dickson brothers lifts his pistol.

Mr Smith swings down the loading lever on his Martini-Henry and shakes his head. ‘I’m not jestin’,’ he snarls. ‘It’s loaded with buckshot. Three-and-a-half inches of cartridge jammed full of eleven big lead balls. Imagine the mess. Down, now! Put them guns down. All of youse.’

Dickson twists, trying to look back. ‘Smith. I’d recognise youse anywhere. I’ll get you for this.’

‘Youse talk tough for a man seconds away from meeting ’is just reward,’ replies Mr Smith. ‘Youse’ll be supping with the Devil by midnight at this rate. Or sooner if me finger slips. Just like it’s doing’ now. Slippin’.’

Dickson swears under his breath, seeing how hopeless his situation is. His brothers can kill the two of us easily, outnumbered as we are, but he will be the first one through the gates of Hell. If anyone tries anything, Mr Smith will fire as he falls. Nothing is more certain. And he can’t miss. There is only one worse place to be shot full of buckshot than fair square in the middle of your fat bum.

‘Put your guns down,’ calls Dickson in a surly voice.

I realise it isn’t just Mr Smith and me he is worried about. He has no idea of knowing how many other armed men might be hidden in the tall crop, ready to cut the gang down like wheat stalks.

‘There be no telling what this lunatic will do,’ he adds.

I go forward and collect up their pistols. They have only three, plus two long knives and two cudgels.

‘Are they serious?’ I ask Mr Smith. ‘They were going to attack us with this lot? We have more guns down there with the donkeys than half the British Army. It would have been a total massacre.’

‘It still will be a bloody massacre if the Cap’n catches this bunch of dunder’eads.’ says Mr Smith.

‘Captain? What captain?’ asks Dickson.

‘Captain James Bowen.’

‘Sweet Jesus, no!’ Dickson nearly chokes and his face goes completely white. ‘They didn’t tell me it was Black Bowen’s cargo. Baxter’s man — he just said whisky. Good whisky. That’s all.’

‘Well, it is Black Bowen’s,’ replies Mr Smith. ‘And if the Cap’n gets ’old of youse, ’e’ll string youse up and gut ya like a fish while youse are still alive. ’avin’ your gizzards blowed out by me would be a blessin’. You’d thank me.’

Mr Smith lets them stew for a few long minutes. ‘Dickson, I’m givin’ youse and ya miserable gang a chance ’ere. Take off ya boots and all ya clothes and I’ll let youse skid-addle out’a ’ere for free, up the ’ill away from the road.’

‘You won’t go and shoot us in the back as we go?’ asks Dickson.

‘I damn well should, but no, not this time. Unless youse come back before tomorrow. Then I’ll let Black Bowen know what youse’ve been playin’ at. And that youse’ll regret for the rest of ya very short life.’

A couple of Dickson’s brothers are already half -undressed. They can smell a way out of this fix.

I try not to laugh a few minutes later but cannot help myself. Seven completely naked men run away, like the Devil himself is after them, their wobbly white bums bobbing up and down like rabbit tails. I start giggling, then a few seconds later Mr Smith laughs.

‘Why did you take their clothes, Mr Smith?’ I ask, genuinely curious after we have gathered our wits.

‘Well, until they is dressed they ain’t goin’ to squeal to no one. And it’ll be a slow and painful walk all the way back to Frenchman Bay in bare feet, I’m thinkin’. We’ll be well gone afore they get even ’alfway.’

‘What will we tell the Captain?’ I ask.

‘What do you suggest, Red?’

I think for a moment. ‘I suggest we saw nothing, and we saw no one, and nothing happened.’

‘I’m thinkin’ the same,’ he says, putting his hand on my shoulder.

‘Do you really think the Captain would have gutted them? Like fish?’ I ask as we make our way back.

‘No, not likely, but ’e has a need to keep ’is, what do youse call it? ’is …’

‘Reputation?’ I ask.

‘Yep, that’s it. ’e wants folk to think ’e is ferocious to scare off ’is enemies.’

‘It seems to work,’ I say. ‘One mention of his name and I thought Dickson was going to wet himself in terror.’

‘Now all we ’ave to be wise to is them damn revenuers,’ Mr Smith continues, ‘God rot their pitiless souls. I ’ate Customs Johnnies.’

‘Do you think they are about?’ I ask nervously.

‘Could be,’ he replies. ‘How did them Frenchman Bay fools knows about the cargo? From one of Baxter’s men. If they do, then maybe word got out. There might be others.’

I spin the chamber on my gun. It’s funny how much things have changed. Here I am handling the Colt, confident I can shoot and hit what I aim at, whereas, when I first joined the Dragon, I had never even held a pistol before. I also notice my hands no longer shake at the thought of something violent or dangerous happening. I think I have finally worked out that my life is in fate’s hands, and there is not much I can do about that. So far, fate has been kind enough, up to a limit. I wonder if it will continue.

KALGAN CREEK

Several hours later, we reach the southern edge of Frenchman Bay. Not long after that we stand at the shallow western edge of Princess Royal Harbour and stare out across the water at the smoking chimneys of the port of Albany. We can see the substantial brick warehouses and government buildings that line the waterfront below the main street of Albany. It makes Broome look like a shantytown. Towering masts are visible, their vessels docked at the jetty, alongside half-a-dozen modern smelly steamers, their funnels leaking smoke.

I am home in my own country, but so far from Broome it seems impossibly foreign. I can’t get used to the scale of this enormous harbour, the size of the surrounding hills or the bitter wind that blows all the time.

‘Can I ask, Captain, where are we headed?’ I ask. ‘That sign over there says Kalgan Creek is the other way, inland. North of Albany. Are we are still headed there?’

‘Just a short detour into town, Red. Housekeeping. Greasing the wheels. A bottle or two for the mayor, the priest, the magistrate, the lighthouse keeper and Dianne Watson, who runs the ship supply company. All the influential folk in Albany town. The ones who know what is going on. You never know when you might need a quick favour from someone of influence, or a timely warning.’

‘Isn’t there anyone who doesn’t, who isn’t …’

‘No, not many,’ replies the Captain. ‘Even some Customs johnnies themselves can be persuaded, sometimes, providing the price is high enough. Somehow, it usually is. Remember Commander Blude from Broome? As crooked as the day is long.’

I understand at once and am not as surprised as I would have been only a few months ago.

‘Then it’s on to Kalgan Creek,’ he continues, ‘to deliver a good percentage of the haul to Simon Turner. What did we work out Red? Eighty-five percent? The rest we take back to Broome to the Curse for your mother to sell over the bar and make us both an extra tidy sum. Not a bad night’s work, if we pull it off.’

Kalgan Creek lies at the bottom of a wide-open valley of grassland. A magnificent farmhouse, almost as big as the Esplanade Hotel in Fremantle, is located right on the edge of a massive dam. Surprisingly white sheep dot the paddocks, and, in the half-light, behind the huge house, I can see the shapes of stable buildings forming a courtyard on three sides. It looks big enough to hold twenty or thirty horses. Several large barns, numerous sheds and stockyards stand further away.

We halt at the top of the hill, where the trees thin out and the track we have been following through the bush seems to stop. We wait by the gate at the paddock’s edge for the tail end of the donkey caravan to catch up.

Mr Smith and Briggs have gone ahead to check out the area, but the Captain does not really expect any trouble while we are on the farm. They return within half an hour, puffed out and sweating from the walk back up the hill, even though a cool night breeze has sprung up.

‘Turner and ’is manager are waitin’,’ says Mr Smith when he catches his breath. ‘At that there shearin’ shed.’ He points at a corrugated iron building outlined against the skyline.

Mr Turner and his farm manager, Joshua Kimberley, stand leaning against the sheep pen rail, smoking and discussing something quietly as they wait for us to reach them. They look up and watch as our line of donkeys draws closer.

‘Gentlemen,’ says the Captain, putting out his hand.

‘Captain. James. I trust you have had an uneventful journey?’ says Mr Turner.

‘Indeed, we have, Simon. But the Customs seem to be nowhere about. You haven’t heard anything of them?’ asks the Captain.

‘We can only hope they’re on a wild goose chase somewhere far away. Or met an end befitting the crooked old soaks that they are, God forgive me for my uncharitable thoughts,’ Mr Turner replies.

While they talk, Mr Kimberley unlocks the large sliding door with a key from a big ring hooked to his belt and pushes it open. The wheels are well-oiled, and the door slides open quickly, despite its size. Inside, the shed is not a shearing shed at all but similar to Mr Baxter’s treasure trove, filled with boxes, barrels and chests. A row of drying sheep skins hang from a beam, as do several sides of beef and kangaroo.

We quietly lead the donkeys into the shed and set about unloading the boxes. No one says much and the men seem quite subdued. I am about to untie the last of my bottles from the back of my donkey when the Captain calls me. I turn, still hanging onto the rope. Mr Turner and the Captain stand just inside the doorway, silhouetted against the evening light.

‘Red, can you spare me a moment of your valuable time?’ calls the Captain.

‘Simon,’ he says, as I step over to where they stand and tip my hat. ‘You may remember you met young Red, my secretary, at the Esplanade in Fremantle. Red Read. He’s Mary Read’s son from the Smuggler’s Curse up in Broome. The one I was telling you about.’

‘Mary Read’s boy? I can see the resemblance.’

I nod, not knowing what to say.

‘My cousin here, your Captain, tells me you are going to make an excellent seaman. It must run in the blood. Seamanship, I mean.’ Mr Turner smiles at me, reaches forward, and pats me on the head like a favourite uncle might. ‘And how is your mother, boy?’

‘You know my mother, sir?’ I ask, even more surprised. How? I had not seen Mr Turner up in Broome in the Curse before.

‘In my younger days. When I was first in Broome, the place didn’t even have a name. Your Captain and I spent many a good hour sampling the delights of the Curse, didn’t we, what?’

The Captain chuckles quietly.

‘I’m afraid it’s not seemly these days for a man in my position, what with me being the local Justice of the Peace. Not that advisable. It looks bad in the newspapers. Gossip in the social pages. Ah, to be young again, eh, Bowen?’

I gape open-mouthed, shocked. Magistrates and Justices of the Peace are the ones who lock up smugglers and often sentence them to long stretches with hard labour. I wonder what would have happened if we had been captured by the Customs on our way here today and were sent to court. Would the Captain’s cousin have had him jailed? Had all of us jailed?

As I return to the unloading, I overhear Mr Turner murmur, ‘Are you sure he’s not yours? Look at those eyes, and the nose.’

‘I thought he was one of yours,’ laughs the Captain.

I nearly stumble over in shock. Of course, it can’t be true. Can it? As the crew has grown to know me over the recent months, I have been teased more and more about how much I look like the Captain. But this? It would explain why Ma sent me away to be with the Captain. The story that I needed to be away from the Curse for a while does not really ring true. I can think of no real reason not to be home still trying to avoid helping her. Nothing has changed that needed me to be gone. My mind is reeling in confusion. I lean back against my donkey’s side and sigh.

‘We wearing you out, Red?’ calls the Captain. ‘Too long lazing on a Sumatran beach? Turned you into the idle landed elite like Simon here?’

I turn and try to smile, knowing my face beams as red as my name. I also see Mr Smith look across at me and grin at my obvious discomfort. When he catches my eye, he winks conspiratorially before turning away to quieten the donkeys.

BACK AT THE CURSE

Ma sees me walking up the hill towards the Smuggler’s Curse long before I reach it. At first, she does not seem to recognise me as she turns away and keeps on sweeping the front step. Eventually, she looks up again, so I wave. Ma stops and stares for a moment, apparently not believing it could be me. Then she drops her broom, hitches up her skirt and rushes down the path towards me. Ma grabs me so hard and hugs me for so long I think I might suffocate.

‘Red! Red! I was getting so worried. You were only supposed to be away a few weeks, at the most. James … the Captain, promised me. Now look at you. All grown up and covered in muscles. I hardly know you. And your face. You’re the colour of my jarrah sideboard. What sort of mother doesn’t recognise her own son? And look how you’ve grown. You’re taller than me. And what is that scar on your cheek? How did you get that? Did you get in a fight?’

‘We’ve been to Singapore,’ I say, not being able to think of anything else for the moment. Telling Ma about pirates and typhoons and me very nearly getting bayoneted by a Dutch soldier is probably not a good idea at this stage. I can just imagine her reaction. It wouldn’t be good.

‘Singapore? That wicked place? Thank God you’re safe. Just wait until I get hold of Captain Bowen, taking my boy to a dreadful place like that. I’ll give him what for. Come inside and we’ll get the kettle on.

‘Teach you to sail did he? Navigate?’ she asks.

‘Yes, using a sextant to take a midday sighting of the sun. And to read charts. And Bosun Stevenson taught me to handle the helm. Mr Rowdy taught me how to trim the sails. And Mr Smith, he taught me to shoot, just like Buffalo Bill. With a Colt.’

‘The girls will be pleased to have you back. They’ve missed you.’

SCHOOL DAYS

It is a slow afternoon in the Curse. Father Jameson sits at his usual table by the window, talking and laughing his head off with Sally and Meg. The two girls giggle at the priest’s stupid jokes and so-called witticisms, but nothing I overhear sounds funny enough to even smile at.

The door swings open and Captain Bowen and Mr Smith stride in. Two old sailors propped on stools at the bar nod in recognition, and across the room, Julia, who is wiping down a table, smiles broadly.

‘Jameson, you old fraud,’ says the Captain.

‘Captain Bowen,’ he replies, emphasising Captain. ‘Is that any way to address a senior member of God’s holy church. Pray, show a modicum of respect for the office at least, if you please.’

‘I apologise, sir.’ The Captain smiles. ‘Jameson, you holy old fraud.’

‘Come an’ join us, Captain,’ laughs Meg.

‘Yes, please do,’ says the Father, apparently not too affronted by the remarks. ‘If you’ve finished insulting me, that is.’

‘Not necessarily. I can keep at it all day, listing your shortcomings.’

‘And I’ll pray for your sins, Captain,’ replies the Father

‘Well, that should keep you up all night,’ laughs the Captain.

I notice Mr Smith stays back and quietly finds himself a stool at the bar. As usual, he is there to watch the Captain’s back.

Without being asked, I fill two glasses with a decent shot of the Littlemills Whisky we brought home from Sumatra, push one across to Mr Smith, and carry the other to the Captain.

‘Ah, Red, there you are,’ he says, happily. ‘Just the man I’m wanting to see. Come, join us, if you would be so kind.’

I look back at Ma, but she nods.

‘Father,’ the Captain continues. ‘You know young Red here?’

‘I should do. I christened the whelp back when I first arrived in this town. I’d barely recognise him now, though.’

‘He is now a young man of independent means, and I’ve noticed he has the makings of a gentleman, not just a gentleman of the sea, and I’m making it my business to see that happens. What he needs now is a good school. To polish his manners and set him on the right paths. Introductions to the right families. A hefty dose of the arts and sciences. Ease his way into Perth Society.’

The priest can see what is coming. ‘That is all fascinating, and I’m pleased for you Red, but Captain, why are you telling me this?’ asks Father Jameson.

‘I’ve heard the church has a brand new school down in Perth. On Saint George’s Terrace, I believe. Being acquainted with Bishop Gibney, as I know you are, you would have some influence there. You could arrange a place for Red,’ says the Captain.

Father Jameson hesitates, trying to think what to say, I imagine. ‘Hmm, yes, indeed, Bishop Gibney is my immediate superior. We are friendly, as you say, but vacancies can be a problem.’

Mr Smith, who can hear every word, rises from his stool and goes over to a table where several strangers sit talking quietly. He leans over and says something to them. Looking nervous, they all immediately push back their chairs, rise and hurriedly leave the room, the door swinging closed with a crash. Half-full glasses remain on the table.

‘You know Mr Smith, my gunner from the Black Dragon?’ asks the Captain. ‘A good man, he is too. You’ll know of his repute, even if …’

‘Oh, yes, Mr Smith and I are acquainted,’ replies the priest. He suddenly seems a little more nervous.

‘How he has suffered recently. What he’s had to witness, the poor man.’ The Captain lets the silence linger. ‘You would have heard of that unfortunate magistrate at Cossack, south of here. Dreadful. A gang of pirates I’ve been told. Beheaded, so I heard. Shocking. Too awful to think about. One never knows what the future may hold. Don’t you agree, Father?’

‘You are so right Captain Bowen,’ says the priest, gulping. His eyes now as wide as a barn owl’s. ‘In fact, thinking about it, I do believe there may well be a vacancy coming up next term at Christian Brothers’ College.’

The Captain slowly nods, satisfied.

‘And I’m sure we can forgo the fees in this instance, being as Red is such a fine young man,’ Father Jameson adds, nervously.

‘No, no need for that, Father. I’m willing to pay for his schooling, providing, of course, he gets the finest of everything and the very best treatment. As befits a young man of considerable means, you understand?’

‘Of course, dear Captain, of course.’ His face is quite pale.

‘And there’ll be none of the flogging I’ve heard your teachers are so keen on. They’re worse than the damn British Navy, I’ve been told,’ continues the Captain. ‘And that certainly is saying something. If I even hear so much as a whisper. If I see the faintest red mark on my, er, our boy …’

‘Heaven forbid,’ cries the priest, realising his life now depends on keeping the Captain sweet and saying exactly the right thing. One nod to Mr Smith and Father Jameson will be instantly meeting his holy boss at the Pearly Gates.

‘Shall we say the start of the middle term then?’ continues the Captain. ‘That should give my tailor enough time to make Red’s school uniforms.’

School uniforms? I sigh a little at the thought. I sit there listening to the Captain map out my future, and in some ways the thought of it makes me happy. I like the idea of becoming a gentleman or even, eventually, a landowner like Simon Turner, but the idea of not continuing as a smuggler and owning my own schooner, the Red Dragon, and sailing it off into the sunset to exotic climes, saddens me even if I did spend much of my time on board the Dragon terrified out of my mind.

‘Don’t look so glum, Red,’ says the Captain. ‘School is not that bad.’

‘But the Black Dragon. Mr Smith and Bosun Stevenson and Teuku …?’ I stop, suddenly remembering Teuku is off fighting in the jungle, if he is even still alive. I sure hope so.

‘What, you think you won’t find them all in the Curse every holiday? You’ll still see plenty of them.’

He is probably right, but school will be deadly dull. Nothing like riding on the deck of the Dragon, all sails set for a fresh breeze and whipping along at eighteen knots. Still, Emma is in Fremantle, not so very far from Perth. And I now have an income of more than a thousand pounds a year, like her mother said I needed to. Maybe I could get to know her a bit better. Maybe school won’t be all bad.

‘Well then, lad,’ the Captain says, standing up and slapping me on the shoulder. ‘That’s today’s commerce completed. A most satisfactory result, I must say.’

He bows at Father Jameson, though not too deeply. ‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Father Jameson.’

‘I’m sure young Master Read will be very happy at the Christian Brothers’ College,’ replies the Father, still not sure that Mr Smith isn’t about to blow his head clean off his shoulders.

‘Of that, I’m certain,’ says the Captain, but as he turns his head, he winks at Mr Smith.

Ma walks over from the bar to collect the half-empty glasses and to see why we are all smiling.

‘Red, it seems we have six weeks clear until the middle term starts. I’m thinking Shanghai. It’s a good night. Perfect for our gentlemen’s trade. We should just be in time for the late tide if we leave now.’

I look back at Ma, to see her reaction.

‘But you’ve only just returned home,’ Ma protests. ‘James Bowen, if you think for one moment you are taking my boy away to sea again so soon, you have another think coming.’

‘But the Dragon just doesn’t sail right without him. Isn’t that so Mr Smith?’ says the Captain. ‘He keeps the crew amused. Besides, it will only be six weeks. At the most.’

‘You said that last time, and he was away for months,’ continues Ma. But she is already starting to smile. She never can resist the Captain’s charm. ‘And I’d still like to know how he came by that nasty scar on his face.’

‘While we’re at it, there’s something I’d like to know about the boy, too,’ the Captain says.

Ma’s eyes narrow and she looks at him sharply.

‘Tell me, why did you name him Red?’

Ma laughs. ‘The first sound he made after he was born was arhhh — just like a pirate. So I named him Red for Red Rackham, the most famous pirate of them all.’

Outside, the faded sign reading ‘The Smuggler’s Curse’ swings back and forth and creaks loudly, battered by an ever-increasing breeze.

‘’ear that?’ says Mr Smith. ‘That’ll be a thirty-knot wind gettin’ up if I’m not mistook. She’s goin’ to be a quick passage, I’m a-thinkin’. A right speedy trip.’

The Captain puts an arm around my shoulders in a fatherly way. ‘Once more down to the beach, dear friends. Once more.’

‘Captain?’ I ask, not quite sure to what he is referring.

‘Just misquoting a little Shakespeare,’ he replies, ‘As you might have noticed I tend to do from time to time.’

I nod. Who could have missed it?

‘Ready to sail again, Red? Another spell at the ship’s wheel? A thirty knot howler. The Dragon can be a right witch in that wind. Are you up for it?’

‘Aye, aye Captain,’ I laugh.

I am a son of the sea, sure enough. Seawater flows in my veins, more surely than red blood does. Of course I am up for it.

THE END

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The ghost of Robert Louis Stevenson hovers over The Smuggler’s Curse; I thank you.

Thanks also to the talented and hardworking staff at Fremantle Press, especially my publisher Cate Sutherland who hauls me back in when I go overboard; Tracey Gibbs, who designed a fabulous cover, and Claire Miller, who runs the publicity with such swashbuckling verve.

I am grateful to Michael Gregg from the Maritime Museum of Western Australia for his invaluable maritime edit and ongoing interest. Richard Scott, John Gillespie, and Lena Perry read early drafts and encouraged me to continue. Allen Newton shared the research trip that ignited the story and remains my trusty sounding board.

To my beloved, Jan Nicholls, children’s book lover and my most enthusiastic fan — I could not have written this one without you. I will always be grateful for your love and faith in me, and for your constant support, endless patience and sense of humour while my head was in colonial Australia and on storm-tossed tropical seas.

Thank you all.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Norman Jorgensen was born in Broome, the eldest of four brothers, and has lived in several country towns since. At a young age he developed a love of books, especially historical novels like Treasure Island, and old movies. At age thirteen Norman learned to sail. These days he loves travelling and researching exotic places for his books.

Norman writes award-winning picture books and novels for young readers including: The Last Viking and The Last Viking Returns (illustrated by James Foley), In Flanders Fields and The Call of the Osprey (illustrated by Brian Harrison-Lever), A Fine Mess, Another Fine Mess and Jack’s Island.

First published in 2016 by

FREMANTLE PRESS

25 Quarry Street, Fremantle 6160

Western Australia
www.fremantlepress.com.au

Copyright © Norman Jorgensen, 2016.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

Cover design by Tracey Gibbs

Printed by Everbest Printing Company, China

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-publication data

Jorgensen, Norman, author.

The smuggler’s curse / Norman Jorgensen.

ISBN: 9781925164190 (paperback)

For children.

Adventure stories.

A823.4

Fremantle Press is supported by the State Government through the Department of Culture and the Arts.

Table of Contents

- Title Page
- Dedication
- The Captain
- The Black Dragon
- On Board
- Below Decks
- Customs
- Stars and Stripes
- Singapore
- Chang Pao
- The Cargo
- Crossed
- The Frigate
- Battle
- Tropical Tempest
- Safe Harbour
- Gun Smugglers
- Surprise Attack
- Back In Business
- Foraging
- Captured
- In the Prison Cell
- Escape
- All Normal
- Storm at Sea
- Mr Cord
- Why was I Sold?
- Sacrificial Goats
- The Pirates
- Sumatra
- The Village
- Major Collingwood
- The Black Widow
- Revenge
- Cutting it Fine
- The Lighthouse
- The Magistrate
- Highway Robbery
- Aiding and Abetting
- Fremantle
- The Esplanade
- The Stranger
- Heading South
- Across the Cliffs
- The Treasure Trove
- Frenchman Bay
- Kalgan Creek
- Back at the Curse
- School Days
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Copyright