The Smuggler's Curse (13 page)

‘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.'

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.'

‘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.