The Smuggler's Curse (18 page)

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.

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.'