Pirate Boy of Sydney Town

by Jackie French

  Ben looked over at the Dutch ship. The grappling hooks must have been released while he was below decks. The ship floated half a mile away perhaps, one end underwater. Bodies floated in the water too. Some, perhaps, were still alive. But they wouldn’t be for long. No one else on the Golden Girl looked over the rail. No one was launching the ship’s boat to save those in the water. Death by sword, or death by drowning — what was the difference, Ben thought, even to the sharks?

  Then he saw Higgins. The convict was leaning against the ship’s boat. He didn’t rise when he met Ben’s eyes, but nodded in acknowledgement, his expression impossible to read. There was no sign of Guwara.

  ‘Son! Over here! You’ll want to see this,’ called Mr Huntsmore. He was up on the quarterdeck with Captain Danvers.

  Ben walked slowly across the deck and up the steps. ‘What, sir?’ he asked. His head ached. His tongue felt too thick for his mouth.

  ‘Fire!’ yelled Captain Danvers.

  Two cannons blasted below and the hull of the Dutch ship exploded in a haze of splinters. The rest of it shuddered then slowly rolled, down into the ocean. A vast wave, perhaps two yards high, spread out from where the ship had been. Ben felt the Golden Girl bounce as the wave passed underneath them.

  A few of the Golden Girl’s crew cheered. But most kept to their scrubbing, barely looking up.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Mr Huntsmore, turning away from the whirling debris where the Dutch ship had gone down. He clapped Captain Danvers on the back. ‘We’ve done it. Good job, man.’

  ‘A good job indeed,’ said Captain Danvers quietly.

  That grand ship is gone, thought Ben, leaning on the rail, trying to breathe in the freshness of the wind instead of the sour stench of blood and men. Vanished as if it had never existed. He realised he hadn’t even seen the ship’s name. Perhaps no one would ever know where it had been lost or why.

  How long would it be before the families of the men who’d died here realised their fathers, brothers, husbands would not return?

  The wind filled the Golden Girl’s sails again, sending them southwest, away from the wreckage-strewn water. Ben wondered where they were headed now. To Shark Island, to let the crew rest and recover before facing the southern gales again? Or would they resume sailing north?

  Down on the deck, sailors still scrubbed. Others hauled at ropes; and the ship’s carpenter hammered at damage to the deck and the gunwales.

  Higgins still leaned against the ship’s boat. He might have taken part in the fight, but he looked as if he felt it beneath him to do any other work beyond serving the Huntsmores.

  Captain Danvers began to walk, a little unsteadily, down to the main deck. Ben and his father followed. Suddenly the captain stopped.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Mr Huntsmore.

  Captain Danvers smiled grimly.

  Suddenly Ben realised that the sailors scrubbing the deck had shoved their holystones under their belts and were rising to their feet. Other men emerged from the hatches, slowly converging around the captain, Ben and his father. Wounded men, men who limped, men who supported others, exhausted men — but excited too, as if the battle had just been the beginning of their adventure. Every one of them was bloody, though from their own wounds or those they’d killed or helped, Ben couldn’t tell.

  And there was Guwara at last — unhurt. The dark-skinned man moved slowly to the outside of the crowd of sailors, his expression impossible to read.

  Only Higgins remained apart, still leaning against the ship’s boat.

  Ben looked at the faces around him. What was happening?

  ‘Seize them,’ Captain Danvers said.

  Ben felt two strong hands pull his arms behind him. A rope bound his wrists tight.

  ‘What in the name of Hades is going on here?’ Mr Huntsmore struggled as his hands were bound too. ‘How dare you! Danvers, I demand you let me go.’

  ‘Demand all you like,’ the captain said, and nodded to Six-Toed Sam. ‘Get his pistols from his belt.’

  ‘This is an outrage! I will see you hanged, man!’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Danvers smiled wearily at Mr Huntsmore. ‘You see, it’s like this. You have two choices. You and your son can die by the sword; or we throw you overboard and see if you can swim.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, man! The sea is alive with sharks. This is mutiny!’

  Ben realised he had never seen the captain look amused before. ‘Ah, you’ve noticed, have you, Huntsmore? Always did think you were a bit slow on the uptake.’

  The men laughed.

  ‘You’ll never get away with this!’ Ben’s father yelled.

  ‘Why not? Dead men tell no tales. Those were your very words, Huntsmore. Give us a few weeks and the Golden Girl will have a new name, a new history, and never appear in any port she’s been to before. And every man on board will be free of New South Wales forever. So what shall it be? Shooting, or man overboard?’

  ‘I demand,’ blustered Ben’s father, then stopped, obviously trying to come up with a demand that might be met.

  ‘Or we could take it nice and slow,’ suggested Danvers. ‘Would you like that, sir?’ He spat out the last word. ‘Maybe chop off your fingers first, so you can feel what it’s like for all those you expected to give their limbs for you today. And then your arms, your legs . . .’

  ‘Stop it!’ yelled Ben.

  ‘Sorry, little master,’ said Danvers, a small flash of sympathy in his eyes. ‘You’re not like your father, but we can’t risk having you tell anyone what happened here. It’s fish food for you too.’

  ‘Excuse me, Captain.’ The crowd turned to look at Higgins, still leaning against the boat. ‘You promised each of us who fought today a share for our work.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Well, the lad helped, even if his father is a pox-ridden mongrel. That boy saved us down among the icebergs. And he helped with the wounded today. I reckon the whippersnapper deserves a share too. Let his life be his share. That’s what I say.’

  Silence. Ben could hear his heart beating. He didn’t look at his father. A dutiful son would say, ‘I will die with my father, an Englishman to the last.’ But he didn’t want to die. Nor had he ever really felt this man was his father. He had just filled the space, now and then, where a father might be.

  Captain Danvers looked around the men.

  ‘He did his part up on that mast,’ said someone. ‘No complainin’ either.’

  ‘Can’t trust ’im. Curs breed true,’ said another voice. ‘The pup’ll be as bad as ’is father.’

  Harry One-Eye stumped forward. Blood crusted his arms, his shirt, his trousers. Other men’s blood. ‘Let the boy live,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You’re forgetting something,’ said Danvers slowly. ‘If we let him live, he can tell the authorities. We’ll all be known as mutineers. And that means the rope in any port in the Empire. Even the Frenchies and the Americans hang mutineers.’

  ‘Only if we take him with us, Captain,’ said Higgins quietly. ‘Put him ashore. Even if he’s rescued, we’ll be long gone. The Golden Girl vanishes, and us too.’

  ‘He won’t survive ashore,’ said Harry One-Eye. ‘Not a boy alone, on a coast like this.’

  ‘A slow death, not a fast one,’ Captain Danvers said. He looked at Ben. ‘Which do you want, lad?’

  ‘Put me ashore,’ said Ben, and added, ‘Please.’ I could have said ‘us’, he thought. I should be pleading for my father too.

  Even as he thought it, Mr Huntsmore said, ‘But what about me?’

  An arm moved from behind Ben. A sword slashed, and a red stain grew across Mr Huntsmore’s neck, severing his head from his body. He fell to the deck, his feet twitching, then lay still.

  Ben gave a cry. He kneeled by his father’s body, gazing at his face. I should be grieving, he thought. But he had been grieving for the past year, for Mama and Badger’s Hill; and today for the men lost in the battle. There was little left for this cold-eyed man who had killed not for survi
val, like so many here had been forced to do, but for wealth.

  ‘More scrubbin’,’ muttered someone as blood pooled on the deck.

  Hands grabbed Mr Huntsmore’s limp body, lifted and heaved. Someone else grabbed the head.

  Ben struggled to stand, and forced himself to watch as they carried his father’s body to the rail and threw it over. I should pray for him, he thought. I should feel . . . something. Perhaps I am dead too, and haven’t noticed.

  ‘You’ve earned a chance, lad,’ Captain Danvers said. He nodded towards a blue smudge to the east. ‘See that? It’s an island, bigger than Shark Island. Rottnest, the Dutchies call it. They say it’s full of giant rats a man can catch with his bare hands — and maybe a lad can catch them too, if he’s fast. The maps say the island’s got fresh water. Keep those young eyes of yours peeled and light a signal fire if you see a ship. If you’re lucky, another Dutch ship might find you and take you to Batavia.’

  ‘But we are at war with the French and Dutch!’ Ben said. And there was no chance an English ship would sail this far north. Why bother when the Dutch controlled the shipping route, and the fastest way to Sydney Town was with the winds down south?

  Captain Danvers gave a tired smile. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that, lad. Chances are you’ll never reach the island anyway. But we’ll give you iron and flint to make a fire. We’ll even give you a knife.’ His gaze hardened. ‘It’s more of a chance than most men get. More than your father gave my son.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘My boy Nate was first mate on the Silver Queen eight years ago, one of your father’s ships. Word in London was there was plague in Bombay that year. But profit was everything to your father. And profit he got, because few other ships ventured to Bombay to carry back tea that year. But my son lost his life.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Ben.

  He wondered if he should tell this man how Mama had been lost on one of his father’s voyages too. But the captain already knew that. And this was all the mercy he would show Ben.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Golden Girl moved with purpose now, the waves lifting her rather than tossing her from side to side. The blue smudge that must be Rottnest grew, till it became green and rocks and sand. Ben sat with his back to the mast. No one met his eyes, not even Higgins. Guwara had vanished, presumably below.

  At last Captain Danvers ordered the mainsail furled. ‘Volunteers to take the boy ashore?’ he yelled.

  Silence. Bare feet shuffled on the deck that had been scrubbed again, though the stains of blood remained.

  Captain Danvers turned to Ben. ‘Sorry, lad. I’m not going to order any man to take you. There are rocks around the island that aren’t on my map. It’s not safe for a ship like ours to sail closer. If no one volunteers . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t suppose you can swim?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Someone sniggered. ‘Might be time you learned then.’

  Ben looked around the men on deck. ‘Please,’ he said.

  More silence.

  He sensed that most were not antagonistic to him, but nor would they risk their lives for him, taking the ship’s boat to an unknown beach. Each man here had a chance of life now with his share of the treasure, a far better share than under an owner who would have taken a third for himself. Why should they risk that life for Ben? None of them even knew him.

  Except, he thought, for Higgins. He looked for him, and found him still leaning against the boat.

  ‘I saved you once,’ Ben said to him.

  Higgins shrugged. ‘You saved me another week down in the hold is all. I’d survived down there for months, I could’ve managed.’ He met Ben’s eyes. ‘And then you had me as your servant in exchange.’

  Ben said nothing. Higgins was right. He probably would have survived, and might even have ended up on this very ship once he’d recovered on shore, though without the food and care he’d enjoyed in Mr Huntsmore’s service it would have taken him longer to regain his strength. And Higgins had already saved Ben’s life once — which was possibly something he didn’t care to mention in front of his fellow mutineers.

  Why did Higgins save me? Ben wondered. He must have known the mutiny was planned. Captain Danvers had obviously filled the ship with men who were loyal to himself. If Higgins hadn’t been part of the plot, it would have been easy for the others to shove him overboard in the southern storms.

  He gazed around for Guwara. Surely he would help him? But there was still no sign of him.

  Higgins heaved himself slowly to his feet. ‘I’ll take the pup to the island,’ he said expressionlessly.

  ‘You’re no sailor,’ said Danvers. ‘We can’t risk losing the boat for the sake of one boy.’

  ‘I used to be a ferryman back and forth across the Thames. I know enough to get to that island and back.’

  Had Higgins really been a ferryman? Or was this yet another lie? But at least it gave Ben a chance.

  Captain Danvers looked around at his men, as if assessing their temper. But once again there was no active antagonism towards Ben, even if they would not help. All of them had seen him climb the mast amid the storm and help Harry One-Eye with the battle-wounded while his father sat comfortably in his cabin.

  At last the captain nodded.

  Higgins clambered down the ladder first. The pinnace rocked as he settled himself on the seat. Ben followed him, the flint and knife tucked under his belt. He should have asked if he could take a bag of clothes too, and the food chest from the cabin, even some money so that if a miracle occurred and a ship picked him up, he would not be penniless in Batavia, an enemy who did not speak the language.

  ‘Hoist the sails, Sneezer,’ said Higgins.

  Ben fumbled with the ropes, but then his fingers remembered how he had done it before on the lake at Badger’s Hill, even though that didn’t have waves that pushed and bounced. Higgins stood stiffly and trimmed the sails, expertly enough for his claim to have sailed on the Thames to possibly be true. The small craft began to bob unsteadily away from the ship.

  Ben looked up at the rail. Most of the men had moved away, though Captain Danvers still stood there, gazing down at them.

  Suddenly something moved. A figure clambered up on the gunwale, then dived, graceful as a sea eagle. A dark head emerged above the waves, swimming towards them using a strange sideways stroke, the other hand holding his spears.

  Guwara.

  A few heartbeats, and Guwara’s hand grabbed the side of the pinnace. He threw his spears into it, then hauled himself, dripping, in too.

  ‘Come to join us, Billy-Boy?’ asked Higgins softly.

  Guwara didn’t reply. He gathered his spears, checked their points, then sat at the other end of the boat. Watching for sharks? Watching for rocks? Watching in case one of the crew decided on a final revenge and sent a shot at Ben?

  At least his presence meant the Golden Girl would get her boat back safely, thought Ben bitterly. And the spears would stop him attempting to overpower Higgins and escape with the boat. But escape to where? Even if he were to push Higgins overboard, which he would not do, the Golden Girl would easily overtake him.

  Ben looked back at the ship. His father’s, until just a few hours ago. Now Ben had lost everything: his parents, his home, his future. He had only his life left, and months or even years of solitude and struggle. He should be weeping. But in truth he felt he had lost his life more than a year ago, when the carriage had left Badger’s Hill for the last time. Nothing since had seemed truly real, except perhaps those hours with Sally, who had reminded him of the friends he had left behind.

  He looked at the island in front of them. Seagulls yelled and soared and balanced on the ever-present wind. Grey shapes moved on the rocks. Seals. He could spear one for food if he had a spear. He doubted that Guwara planned to leave him any of those he held so carefully. At least he had shown Ben how to make a spear. Then Ben realised Guwara had never shown him how to finish the spear, how to make the bone barbs or a
ttach them to the wood.

  The boat changed course, and now the island hid it from the Golden Girl. Ben could see more rocks and then a beach, the sand as bright as sunlight. Perhaps he could fish from there. If he unravelled his stockings, the wool might become a fishing line. He might be able to grind the buttons of his jacket to make hooks . . .

  ‘Well?’ Higgins asked Guwara softly. ‘What happens now? Your choice, friend. You got the spears.’

  Guwara laughed.

  Ben stared at him. What was so funny? They were leaving him here to die, or at best to live scavenging among enemies.

  Guwara stood and trimmed the sails, swiftly and expertly. They billowed, taut as canvas eggshells. The boat surged through the waves. Suddenly Ben realised the beach was getting further away. The boat was heading due east, towards the mainland, the Golden Girl still hidden from view.

  He looked at Higgins, then at Guwara, and tried to keep his voice steady. ‘What’s happening?’

  Did they plan to kill him out of sight? But Higgins had saved his life. And he’d thought Guwara was almost a friend.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked again.

  ‘I’m savin’ your poxy life,’ said Higgins shortly. ‘An’ I think Billy-Boy here has the same idea. Now hush up.’

  The freshening wind pushed the boat hard east. They were nearly at the mouth of the Black Swan River. Guwara steered expertly towards what looked like a shallow channel at one side of the sandbar.

  Ben looked back. There was still no sign of the Golden Girl. Did Higgins and Guwara plan to leave him on the mainland instead of on Rottnest Island? But that made no sense. Ships stayed as far as they could from the rocky coast; and it would be impossible for Ben to cross this mostly unknown continent on foot. His only chance of rescue was on the island.