The Smuggler's Curse (7 page)

‘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.

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.'

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.