The Smuggler's Curse (11 page)

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.'

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.

‘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?'