The Smuggler's Curse (24 page)

‘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.

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.

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.