The bow is trapped on the coral reef, the long bowsprit pointing skywards. A few minutes later, I can see, two hundred yards or so ahead, a white beach glistening in the first rays of sunlight across the shallows. A dense forest of jungle and palm trees is behind that, and to the left, almost out of sight, I glimpse a building and a jetty. I look closer. The building is rusty and derelict, and the pier has undoubtedly not been used in years. The pylons are green with slime, and several are missing, apparently collapsed into the sea.
A small wave crashes over the hull, and I turn as best as I can with the steep angle beneath my feet to see that the deck at the stern is entirely underwater. Stranded like a turtle and broken, the proud Dragon is a forlorn sight.
One of the heavyweight starboard cannons breaks free and careens wildly down the deck. Mesmerised, I watch it smash everything it hits. It quickly splashes into the water at the stern, just missing Mr Smith who still clutches the makeshift tiller and who is now up to his waist in swirling water.
No, something is not right with him. ‘Mr Smith!’ I shout loudly, but he doesn’t answer.
He is slumped over the oar at his waist, his head and arms lolling in the water. He is unconscious, or even dead. Instantly, I let go the forestay. My feet shoot out from under me, and I slide down the slippery deck. I bang my head. It hurts, but I don’t have time to think about it. ‘Captain!’ I yell, ‘Mr Smith!’
The Dragon is one hundred and one feet long, and the last twenty feet are underwater. The deck is wet, and I can feel myself sliding out of control, so I twist around. I’m on my back, slipping feet first for the whole length. I plunge into the sea and immediately swallow enough to drown me. I scramble back to my feet, reach up and grab hold of the tiller. I clutch hold of Mr Smith’s collar and pull his head out of the water. Luckily, he coughs several times, so I know he is not dead, but he collapses backwards, again into the swirling mess of water, ropes and rubbish.
I lift him again, but this time I manage to hold him to keep his face out of the water even though my feet slip and slide about.
‘Red!’ The Captain also slides down the deck. He too splashes into the sea, and, in seconds, he is beside me and holding up Mr Smith’s limp body.
‘Over the stern, Red. Swim for it,’ he says. With one hand each we pull Mr Smith out over the stern rail and into the sea and kick and pull ourselves one-handed out and back towards the island. An outcrop of coral is above the shallows. Luckily, the waves are tiny, and we get there quickly.
We are surrounded by rock pools, but there is enough of the dry coral to lay Mr Smith on his back on the flattest bit of reef we can find. He coughs several more times, but his head still falls back. He must have had a whack to the head. Anything could have hit him as debris flew everywhere when we hit the reef.
Bosun Stevenson and the rest of the crew all hold grimly onto the side rail or lengths of rope to stop themselves sliding down the steep sloping deck into the sea.
‘The ladder, Red, can you see it?’ calls the Bosun down to me. ‘Is it still there?’
I look up. The ladder hangs over the edge of the hull, which is lucky as the deck is too high above the coral for anyone to leap off the deck to the outcrop. There is only a small jump down from the bottom rung though. I suppose they could slip into the sea at the stern and swim ashore as well, but it will mean sliding down the deck like I did and that is dangerous. There is no hope of using the ship’s dinghy. Its stern is entirely mangled, making the craft look like a carpenter’s scrap pile. In fact, the whole ship is a huge mess. Ropes and canvas are strewn everywhere, one cannon carriage is overturned and is caught up in a tangle of sheets. Jagged holes have punctured the hull so that daylight shines through. It is almost as if a giant had viciously stamped his boot down on the Dragon, splintering and smashing it.
One by one, the crew climb down the ladder and drop onto the coral outcrop. Most turn and gaze back at our ship. She still groans gloomily as water pours in, filling the stern and, inch by inch, pulling her back towards the deeper water.
I can barely believe my eyes, shocked at seeing our Dragon like this.
Captain Bowen is first to speak. I am surprised that he doesn’t sound angry, as I would have expected. By rights, he should be furious. He looks about, obviously counting to make sure we are all there, and then quietly says, as if just asking for a cup of tea, or even the time of day, ‘The wreckers’ revenge, eh? Those Cossacks don’t even know the meaning of the word. But they are certainly going to learn it. They are going to wish they hadn’t done this. They will live just long enough to regret this day, but no longer. Not a minute longer.’ His voice is like ice.
No one says anything.
The Captain continues, ‘O, from this time forth, my thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! Revenge should have no bound, and in our case, it will not,’ he whispers coldly.
I don’t understand how he can say that with such certainty. Here we are on an island in the middle of the Indian Ocean, miles from anywhere, with little hope of rescue and no water or food. It is possible there could even be cannibals lurking in that dark jungle only two hundred yards away, and we could very well be the food. I look back over my shoulder just a little nervously. And even if we can survive starvation or some of us being eaten, the odds are high that the wreckers will be back, well-armed, to try and finish us off for good.
Mr Stevenson nods in agreement. ‘It may take us a little while now with the Dragon worser for wear, but it will happen.’ He smiles wickedly and draws his finger across his throat like a dagger.
Worse for wear? The Dragon is utterly destroyed.
‘You think they’ll be back, Captain?’ asks Sam Chi.
‘Most certainly, Sam,’ he replies. ‘It’ll take them about a week to get back to Cossack and restock with those cannonballs and powder and water and supplies, and a week or so to get back here, so we have that long to get ready for them. They are going to sail back into the biggest surprise of their soon-to-be short lives. Every single one of the poisonous, bunch-backed toads.’ He looks up again at the now battered and worthless hull of the Dragon. ‘Damn their eyes. Curse them. I curse every bone in their miserable, pox-ridden bodies.’
THE MINE
The Captain and bosun lift Mr Smith and, carrying him on their shoulders, wade through the shallows between the reef and a white sandy beach about two hundred yards away from the Dragon, or what’s left of the poor thing. It has now become little more than the hulk of the Dragon. The rest of us follow them, though the men keep stopping to look back. For most of them, the Dragon has been their only home for years, and the shock of suddenly losing it is too much to think about, let alone the idea of being stranded on a sandy island in the middle of the Indian Ocean miles from anywhere.
‘We’ll meet at that jetty,’ calls the Captain, indicating with his head.
The beach is not wide, and dense jungle stretches far to the right. Hundreds of coconut palms lean forward and sway in the light breeze, and thousands of fallen coconuts litter the beach. Fallen trees and palm fronds also lie scattered over all the sand.
To the left, the island abruptly ends in a narrow spit of sand that leads into the pale blue water. If we weren’t all so shocked at the events of the last few hours we might appreciate how lovely it looks. As it is, we trudge on the beach silently, our heads down watching for sharp rocks and outcrops of sharp white coral hidden by the white sand.
No one says a word until Mr Briggs calls out. He is slightly ahead of the rest of us. He lifts his arm and points. ‘Look,’ he calls excitedly, ‘around the point there. There’s that building we see’d earlier.’
Sure enough, as we draw closer, we can see not just a single building but about half-a-dozen rusted iron structures. Unfortunately, most of them are derelict. Bits of old rope, planks of wood, rusted corrugated iron roofing sheets, bottles, machinery, and other rubbish, as well as scores of kerosene drums, lie scattered all around the houses.
Behind the houses
, three large holes like caves have been cut into a low cliff. Further on, the jetty I glimpsed earlier juts out to sea. Most surprisingly of all, further back, alongside railway tracks, are six small ore wagons lying toppled on their sides. A tiny steam engine, battered and brown with rust, has derailed off the equally rusty railway line that leads from the end of the jetty into the jungle. It still stands upright but looks entirely out of place against this tropical background.
‘I think I know this place,’ announces Bosun Stevenson, frowning, as he and the Captain lower Mr Smith to the ground and lean him against a palm tree.
‘Bosun?’ replies the Captain, also looking about.
‘Wagifor.’
I look at him, puzzled. What sort of name is that for an island?
‘W, A, G, I, Four,’ he spells it out. ‘It stands for West Australia Guano Company, Island Number Four,’ he says. ‘They didn’t bother naming them properly. Islands one, two and three are still in operation, I think, but four was hit by a cyclone about five years ago. 1893 I think. Remember that blow? It nearly did for us as well at the time, off Palmerston. The cyclone did so much damage they decided to abandon the mine. The guano was running out anyway, so it wasn’t worth the effort of rebuilding.’
‘And you think this is the place?’ asks the Captain. ‘It certainly looks like a cyclone has been through here. What a mess. Still, it seems like this is to be our home for the foreseeable future, so we’ll have to make the best of it.’
‘It’s further north than I imagined we were,’ continues the Bosun, ‘but we did drift on the current, who knows how far …’
‘And our chronometer was destroyed, so we didn’t have longitude either. God knows where we ended up,’ says the Captain, ‘so WAGI Four it seems to be then.’
As he speaks there is a loud groan and an odd far-off screeching sound. We turn and watch as the Dragon slips further back, stern first, into the sea leaving only half the deck visible. The Captain winces as if in pain but doesn’t comment.
Bosun Stevenson, though, lets out a deep, deep sigh and his shoulders slump. Later, I see him sitting on a rock with his head in his hands. I would swear he has been crying, but that is not possible. Hard men like the Bosun do not know how to cry. Boys like Red Read, on the other hand, try to hold back the tears and end up blubbering like wet babies. I don’t cry this time, but I feel deep sadness at the thought of my beautiful brand-new seachest, with my books and Colt and long black boots, now at the bottom of the sea.
The Captain, too, is upset, though, like the Bosun, he does his best to hide his pain. A couple of times, when he thinks no one is looking, I see him staring at the ruins of the Dragon, a sad, faraway look on his face.
I walk over to the palm tree to see how Mr Smith is coping and sit on the sand facing him.
‘Are you hurt, Mr Smith?’ I ask. He has a mark on his forehead, and a decent bump, but the skin hasn’t broken.
‘Red,’ he replies. ‘It was just a bump. Just a bit sore. I’ve ’ad worse. I don’t know what ’it me. Still, I am fine. I’ll know to get me ’ead outta the way next time.’
I leave him resting and set off exploring the area like the rest of the crew. We soon work out the mine’s layout. There is a manager’s house, almost flattened, a bunkhouse, a mess hall with an open dining area that was once covered with canvas, scraps of which still hang from a frame. Further back stands a washhouse and latrine block, and then, to one side, is the largest building, which was probably the repair workshop. Within, tools lay scattered on the sand floor, a workbench is overturned, and lengths of metal and pipe and coils of wire and more kerosene drums lie haphazardly about. The cyclone must have been fierce as most of the roof is missing. All the buildings had been whitewashed at one time, but now look stained and grubby.
‘Why all the drums, Bosun?’ I ask. There are hundreds of small rectangular drums about knee high scattered everywhere. Some are half buried in the sand, others have been blown up against the buildings, and many more rest at the edge of the jungle caught up in the vegetation.
‘Kerosene drums, Red. Heating oil. Kero used to dry the guano before shipping. It’s cheaper than whale oil, and doesn’t smell as bad.’
I nod, understanding, as I know how bad whale oil smells. There is not much that is worse, especially after it has been boiled.
‘What’s it used for? All the guano?’ I ask.
‘Farm fertiliser and explosives,’ he replies. ‘It is made from seabird droppings, and that’s why it doesn’t smell too good.’
‘You can say that again.’
The Captain peers around the bunkhouse, our new home, and then up at the sky through the open roof as clouds race across the sky. ‘What say you, Bosun? Feel like rain to you?’
‘By nightfall, Captain. A right tropical drenching, I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘Right, Sam Chi, Red, you two go and scout and see what food you can find. It’s a tropical island, so that shouldn’t be too hard. Mind you, no monkey stew if you can avoid it, please. The rest of us can see what we can do about getting a roof back on the bunkhouse here. It looks to be the least damaged. There is plenty of roofing iron lying about. Hopefully, by tonight, we’ll have a good hot meal in us and a dry place to sleep.’
We haven’t walked very far along the shore when Sam stops and smiles. He nods at the crystal-clear water. Two small, harmless, black-tipped reef sharks about three feet long swim back and forth in the shallows. ‘I’m thinking fish and chips,’ he says, ‘without any chips, of course.’ He looks about, finds a straightish fallen stick about his height, and then using one of his bootlaces, ties his knife to the end of the stick to fashion a spear. He wanders into the shallows, and within seconds, he has stabbed both sharks and tossed them onto the beach at my feet.
‘How about tender shark meat in coconut milk, Red?’ Sam asks. ‘And see all those purple berries?’ He points to the jungle at a tangle of low weedy branches. ‘French blueberries running wild. Very tasty. We’ll go and collect an armful of those too. Dinner tonight took care of, and how long have we been gone, ten minutes?’
We return to the camp, carrying a shark each, but no one even notices us as they are far too busy. Several men are up on the rafters of the bunkhouse hut tying down the sheets of roofing metal with wire, while the others hand up the rusting metal to them. They work quickly, as the light is fading as the clouds turn dark grey and almost black in places. The breeze has also increased, making handling the sheets difficult. The men have to hold them tightly to stop them blowing away. An iron sheet falling from the roof could be deadly and slice your head right off. After all our bad luck lately, that is not something I want to see happen.
‘First off, Red,’ says Sam, ‘is we have to get this galley ship-shape and Bristol fashion.’
I look about at the destroyed kitchen and wonder how.
‘I need a table top to start with,’ he says, ‘so we make one. There’s plenty of timber lying about, and we can flatten some of those kero drums to make a surface. The stove there just needs cleaning up. It’s one of them new Metters stoves. It looks like it could still work.’
I look at the filthy, once cream-coloured enamel stove against the far wall. All sorts of birds have used it as a nest, and the black chimney has broken off about head height. I wonder about Sam’s enthusiasm.
‘They had a settlement here so there must be fresh water hereabouts,’ he continues. ‘How about to start with, you go searching. A stream or a pond can’t be too far away.’
As I head over towards the edge of the jungle, I hear Sam begin smashing the drums flat. He sure makes a racket.
An overgrown track near the kitchen leads into a tunnel of overhanging branches. I shrug. That looks like as good a place as any to start. As I reach the edge of the vegetation where it forms the passageway and gets darker, I pat the handle of my dagger in my belt, just to be sure it is still there. Who knows who or what is around the next twist and turn of the track? It could so easily be cannibal
s hiding, just waiting for the chance to attack and boil me up in a great big pot for dinner.
I set off, pushing branches and leaves away from my face and stepping over a wild carpet of ground-hugging roots and fallen vegetation. The smell of decaying undergrowth is strong. Somewhere, deeper in the jungle, a bird screeches loudly and sounds more like someone being murdered. Can it be cannibals? I stop for a second. It has to be a bird. Doesn’t it? Something crunches ahead of me, but I can’t see anything. It sounds big though. Far too big for a bird. I reach and take my dagger from my belt, just in case. If it is cannibals, I am going to go down fighting, that’s for sure. No one is going to eat me easily.
I am tempted, however, to turn and run back to the camp as quickly as my legs will carry me. ‘Okay, Red,’ I say aloud, ‘stop being a chicken. Toughen up. What would Captain Bowen do right now? He’d keep on, that’s what he’d do.’ Even so, my heart beats so hard I can feel it.
The noise ahead gets louder. There is the sound of breaking, shattering branches and a loud thumping. Something is coming my way. Fast. It is large, and it is close, and it heads straight for me. The trees ahead shake. Maybe it is a whole tribe of hungry cannibals. Whatever it is, it smells horrible. A black shape bursts from the bushes. Its eyes glare madly in the half-light, and it snorts loudly. A wild boar gallops right at me. All I can see are two massive yellow tusks pointing upwards ready to rip my stomach open. I yell, not even realising I am doing it. A few more steps and the boar will be on me, its giant weight trampling me to death and ripping me apart with those viciously pointed tusks. I hurl my knife with all the force I can muster. The point of the blade slams into the boar’s right eye. It squeals madly. Its front legs collapse under it, and it skids to a halt. I stand, not daring to move.
Minutes pass by with me standing paralysed. Eventually, I find I can breathe again, and my heart no longer pounds in my chest like a bass drum. The huge hairy beast has not moved. I take a cautious step closer, wait, and then another. It still doesn’t stir. The gigantic boar is as dead as a doornail, my dagger buried at least six inches into its eye socket. A small dribble of blood has stained the hair near its snout and what seems like a gallon of snot leaks out onto the sand.
The Wreckers' Revenge Page 6
