The Wreckers' Revenge

by Norman Jorgensen

  Over the next ten minutes, the crew arrive one at a time, and then the Captain last of all. I see him way off in the distance walking along the beach. Every so often he reaches down and grabs a coconut, marks it with his knife and then tosses it in the sea. Eventually, he reaches us.

  ‘Today,’ he announces as he sits on a drum at the end of the table, ‘we are going to make it difficult for any of those wreckers who manage to come ashore. We are going to set a trap. Around the middle of the cove, I want you to hack a track into the jungle. Not too wide. Go in about fifty yards. You will find a good high tree with plenty of spreading branches. The one I want is taller than all the rest. You can’t miss it. Then at the base of the tree, we split the track into two paths like a fork. The paths don’t have to go far. Just so the ends can’t be seen.’

  It will be hard work, as the jungle is dark, dense and all but impenetrable.

  ‘Then just above where the path splits, I want a corrugated iron platform balanced up as high as you can in the tree.’

  Several of the crew look puzzled but say nothing and continue to listen.

  ‘We load up the platform with coconuts filled with sand. Then we light a fire at the crossroads to lure them in, just like they did to us when they put out the lighthouse to lure us onto the reef at Cossack. The wreckers come in running, thinking they are chasing us. They reach the fork in the road and stop to decide which way to go, then Red, hidden up in the tree, flips the iron and coconuts rain down heavy and hard on their heads. In the dark, they’ll never know what happened.’

  There is a satisfied murmur from the crew.

  ‘Those that survive that braining,’ he continues, ‘will turn and run back, and, unfortunately for them, into all manner of unpleasantness. Maybe even one of Mr Smith’s coconut bombs of particular nastiness.’ The Captain pauses again. ‘No, thinking about it, we’ll do it at night. The dark will be safer for us.’

  ‘Hmmm, I can’t wait for the miserable wreckers to come,’ says the Bosun. ‘We’ll teach them a lesson they won’t forget. Wreck our ship, and you live to regret it!’

  ‘Those that ’aven’t ’ad their ’eads stoved in with Red’s coconuts,’ laughs Mr Smith. He too seems to enjoy the prospect of the upcoming battle. ‘That’ll be well worth seeing.’

  The Captain and Rowdy join us at the mess table the next morning. Rowdy has been on watch again and has the Captain’s binoculars looped around his neck.

  The Captain stops and looks about. ‘Sam Chi,’ he calls.

  ‘Your breakfast is ready, Captain. Bird eggs. Fried,’ he answers, nodding at the battered enamel plate in his hand.

  ‘Sam, you’re Broome born and bred. You can swim.’ It is not a question. ‘You’re like Red here, almost a dolphin.’

  Sam grins and nods.

  ‘Rowdy tells me that the crew of the lugger have gone ashore and set up a tent in a clearing back from the beach. We are going to cause them some consternation,’ says the Captain, with a wry smile. ‘A lot of consternation. We are going to steal their lugger.

  ‘Tonight, we will swim out there and set it adrift. The tide will change about midnight, and the Bosun tells me there is likely to be a nor’-wester blowing. We’ll jam the rudder and cut their anchor. By the time any watchmen on board realise, they’ll have drifted halfway to Africa. And when the rest of the crew wake up in the morning, they’ll be stranded, just like us, but they’ll be on an even smaller island.’

  ‘Captain, I can swim, but that is over two miles, there and back,’ I protest.

  ‘I’ve thought of that. Your fire rafts gave me the idea. How about you and Mr Smith make another one, but this time fill the drums a bit, so they float lower in the water just on the surface. Cover the drums with vegetation and seaweed, so it looks like flotsam and tie rope handles to the sides so the three of us can hang on.’

  ‘And Rowdy,’ the Captain continues, ‘scout around in all the rubbish in the workshop and see if you can find us a crowbar or a length of metal to jam the lugger’s rudder.’

  At ten o’clock that night, the three of us smear pork fat mixed with charcoal from the fireplace all over our faces. I almost laugh as all I can see of Sam and the Captain is their teeth and the whites of their eyes.

  I tie a length of cloth around my head and push in leaves and bits of seaweed. The raft floats in the shallows, with Mr Smith up to his knees in the sea, holding it in position. On top of the drums, Rowdy has tied on two small rusty crowbars and several metal rods of different lengths. There is also a coil of rope and a drum of fresh water, as it is likely to be an exhausting swim.

  It is difficult to see as I step in the water and take my position on the side. The water is warm, which is lucky as we will probably have to be in it for three or four hours at least.

  ‘Watch y’self, boy,’ says Mr Smith, quietly. ‘Remember, them Cossack swine still ’ave guns out there.’ Mr Smith and I seem to spend a lot of time together and, like the Captain, he has been treating me well and looking out for me, a lot like a father, especially since my return from boarding school.

  ‘That’s the infamous Red Read you’re talking about there, Mr Smith. Protector of helpless children and scourge of maniacal magistrates,’ laughs the Captain. ‘He has the gods on his side more than anyone I’ve ever known. He’ll be fine.’

  ‘But what about me?’ asks Sam Chi, only half jokingly. ‘The gods are certainly not on my side. They send me no end of trouble.’

  The Captain smiles. ‘Are you sure it’s the gods who send you trouble? You don’t go looking for it? As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport, says Mr Shakespeare, Sam.’

  ‘I must be completely mad doing this,’ grumbles Sam half-heartedly. ‘Off my head bonkers, stark raving, frothing at the mouth …’

  The Captain pushes out the raft. It splashes and bobs in the small waves, and within seconds, we are up to our necks in the sea.

  ‘The current is powerful,’ says the Captain. ‘I tested it yesterday with coconuts. It should take us close to that tiny island. The one with just the three trees ahead to the left of the one we want.’

  It is too dark to see it, but I know where he means.

  ‘After we’ve done the deed, we wait there for the tide to turn, and hopefully, the current will bring us right back to our beach here.’

  The current is indeed powerful. I thought we would be swimming the whole time and having to push and pull the drums, but instead, I can barely hang onto the rope loops as the raft rushes away in the surging sea, tugging at my arms.

  From the little island, it is only a couple of hundred yards to where the lugger is anchored. As we get closer, I can see the wreckers have a fire at their camp, about fifty yards back from the water’s edge. Silhouetted against the bright flames, half a dozen men sit around it. The smell from their dinner still lingers.

  ‘Phew! What on earth are they eating?’ whispers Sam. ‘It smells like rat.’

  ‘It probably is rat,’ laughs the Captain, quietly. ‘They would have run out of food days ago.’

  The lugger appears above us, dark and dangerous. If there is anyone on board, all they have to do is lean over the rail and shoot us in the top of our heads. I sink lower into the water, right up to my eyes, suddenly feeling very nervous.

  We manoeuvre the raft towards the vessel, kicking gently. The lugger’s stern points into the wind, away from the beach, so we are hidden from the shore behind the port side. It is odd, as seamen nearly always anchor their craft with the bow pointing into the wind.

  Sam grabs hold of the rudder chain with one hand and the raft with the other to stop us floating away. It looks difficult as the current pulls the two apart with a lot of force.

  This lugger is old and has seen much better days. Barnacles and slimy seaweed cling to the hull. Above the waterline, the once dark blue paint is faded, cracked and peeling and streaked with dirty rust stains.

  The Captain jams one of the metal rods between the rudder and t
he hull so it can no longer turn and ties it in place with a few quick knots. As he does so, the raft crashes against the lugger’s hull with a dull thud.

  I instantly look up, expecting to see a face and the barrel of a rifle aimed at me or the flash of a gun being fired, but we are lucky. So far.

  ‘I can see the bow,’ says Sam. ‘It looks like it might be tied up to the shore, not anchored. I’m not sure.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ I say.

  I let go my loop and, breaststroking slowly and carefully, make my way along the length of the hull. My eyes are used to the darkness by now, and as I reach the bow, I can see there is a rope sloping down from a cleat on deck to a coconut tree on the far side of the beach. It is pulled as tight as fence wire, and this end is way above my head and too high for me to reach it. I pull myself towards the sand and keep my head as low as I can so only my eyes are above the surface. I am on the coral in the shallows, almost on the sand with the water up to my knees before I can reach up and grab the mooring rope. I take my knife from its scabbard on my belt and begin slicing through the thick rope as quickly as I can.

  ‘Hey! Look!’

  One of the men by the fire jumps to his feet. He has seen me. I continue slicing frantically. I must be nearly through. I have to be. Because the rope is above my head, I have no pressure on it. I hack at it in panic.

  ‘Hey!’ he calls again, his voice surprised and angry.

  The rope parts. At the exact same time, a shot flashes, bright and loud in the night air. The water right beside my leg splashes up as the bullet hits. I instinctively duck. The swift current has grabbed the lugger, and it is slowly starting to move.

  The cut end of the rope, now hanging limply from the lugger’s bow, trails in the water right in front of me. I clutch my knife in my teeth, and I dive for the line. I manage to grab it with both hands. Another shot sounds. I am pulled over the shallows, and the coral scratches my feet and legs. More shouts and foul curses sound behind me. Only a few seconds more and I’ll be in the darker, deeper water. It will be too dark for them to see me. Even so, the wreckers on the island fire wildly. The shots are loud, and I hear bullets whizz above my head and thud with sickening force into the hull of the lugger. It could so easily be me the bullets were thudding into.

  ‘Red, let go!’ The Captain and Sam are close by, still hanging onto the raft. It too is being swept along the lugger.

  ‘Let go too, Sam,’ commands the Captain. ‘Leave the raft. Swim to the small island. But keep low. No splashes.’

  We quickly reach the temporary safety on the far side of the tiny island, and l lay face down on the sand at the base of the palm trees, hidden from the gunmen on the larger island. We need to get off this beach, though, as it is in rifle range of the crew. As soon as it is dawn, they will be able to see us and pick us off quickly.

  ‘It must be about midnight,’ says the Captain, after what feels like hours. ‘The tide’s changing. Let’s go.’

  We slip back into the water and are instantly carried on the surging current back towards our own island. It is so easy that after a while I turn over and float on my back.

  Our crew have lit a fire on the water’s edge, so we know where to come ashore. We only have to swim sideways across the current when we reach the shallows.

  Bosun Stevenson comes down to the water’s edge as the three of us emerge from the sea, pushing wet hair from our faces. ‘How did you get on, Captain? We heard shots.’ He can see we are not really hurt, though my feet and legs are scratched and bleeding.

  ‘Their boat is on its way to Africa,’ says the Captain, sounding satisfied.

  ‘Job well done,’ nods the Bosun. ‘They are stranded.’

  ‘It seems like there was no one on watch on the lugger. We might have been able to climb on board and steal it,’ says the Captain, a little regretfully. ‘Still, we could all well have been shot to pieces trying. Those beslubbering, beetle-headed, trigger-happy Cossack wreckers have enough guns over there to start a small war. Red was nearly shot.’ He suddenly laughs, ‘Again. More lives than a cream-stealing alley cat, that boy.’

  I suddenly feel very queasy, so I sit down on the sand. Not only do I want to throw up, probably from drinking half the Indian Ocean, but I am also cold, and my toes and fingers have gone wrinkly from all the time in the water. The coral scratches have started to sting as well.

  ‘Here, Red, drink this.’ Mr Smith hands me a dented metal mug. ‘Piping hot coconut milk. Not navy rum I’m afraid, but it’ll do. It looks like you’ve ’ad quite a night. We ’eard the shooting. I was getting alarmed.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Smith,’ I reply, before taking a single sip of the coconut milk. I relax slightly, and then everything I have ever eaten or drunk in my whole life, especially all the recent seawater, comes gushing up. For a wannabe hero, I sure am a cowardly custard.

  BATTLE READY

  We sit on drums around the table at breakfast, the Captain at one end as usual. Even though we are now all stranded, for some reason we keep up the routine of the ship as if we are still at sea. We keep the same watches and eat meals at the same regular times.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ the Captain says.

  We all stop talking. The Captain’s I’ve been thinking phrase is saved for major stuff.

  ‘When the fleet arrives, the wreckers will expect to see their lugger tied up at an island, ready to plan their attack on us. Now, with the lugger a ghost ship like the Flying Dutchman, well over the horizon and sailing on forever with no one on board, how will they know where to find us, or even their own crew? How many islands in the Cocos group, Bosun Stevenson?’

  ‘Twenty-five, thirty? Something like that. I’m not really sure,’ he replies.

  ‘That is a hell of a lot of searching. What do you reckon? Will they split up to make the search quicker or stick together, safety in numbers?’ asks the Captain. No one answers. ‘Red, I’m curious, what do you think?’ he adds.

  ‘Me?’ I ask, a little nervous. I clear my throat. ‘The Cossacks know they will be up against Black Bowen and the crew of the Black Dragon, Captain. They won’t be that brave ’cause they know what we are like. I reckon they’ll stick together like a bunch of schoolyard bullies.’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking too. So what do we do? Do we retreat in the jungle, and wait for them to grow tired of searching and go home?’ He waits while the men consider his plan, ‘Or, do we lure the fleet into our lagoon and set about destroying them one by one, fiery Francis Drake style, remembering they still have those massive Dutch cannons on deck.’

  ‘Destroy ’em!’ barks Mr Smith, as he bangs his fist on the table. ‘Burn ’em all to the waterline. Send ’em all to ’ell in a ’andcart! No one destroys the Black Dragon and lives to boast about it.’

  I look about. They all smile wickedly and nod enthusiastically.

  ‘All but the last lugger,’ says the Captain. ‘We’ll use that one to sail home.’ He gets up to leave, but stops and smiles. ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.’ The men have heard it before a surprising number of times, as they have steeled themselves for battle.

  Later in the day, Mr Smith and I sit at the end of the jetty, fishing, using twine we unwound from a thicker rope, and hooks made from sharpened fencing wire. The water below us swarms with fish of every kind and colour. We turn as we hear the loose planks banging under footsteps. The Captain arrives and sits down beside us.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he says.

  We nod in greeting.

  ‘Mr Smith, I wanted to ask your advice. When the luggers arrive, if we float a fire raft out into the lagoon, we need their crew to be looking in the opposite direction. They need to be completely mesmerised by something happening, so they don’t turn around until it is too late.’

  ‘They need to be under attack from the opposite side? Keeping their ’eads down?’

  ‘Precisely, Mr Smith.’

  ‘We ’ave nothing much to attack ’em with. All our guns and cannons ar
e at the bottom of the lagoon,’ he answers.

  ‘Including my shiny, brand-new Colt,’ I murmur, unhappily.

  A great idea suddenly occurs to me. I remember one of the books that Constable Kelly brought to me in the prison cell back in Perth. The book on medieval weapons. I had read every word at least twice, seeing as I had nothing much to do for the two weeks leading up to the birching. ‘A catapult, Captain. We could launch the exploding coconuts at them,’ I say excitedly.

  ‘Hmm, good idea, Red,’ he replies, ‘though catapults could be hard to construct, not at all accurate, and it would need to be out in the open. The Cossacks have guns, and they are keen to use them on us.’

  ‘A crossbow, Captain,’ I continue, immediately, not deterred. ‘A really big one. A massive crossbow. A ballista. From medieval times. I read about them in a book. They were mounted on wheels and used a winch to pull back the cable. They could fire deadly accurate for hundreds of yards,’ I say, excitedly, ‘and you can build a screen in front of it to hide behind.’

  ‘You might have something there, Red. Come down on the beach. We’ll find some smooth sand, and you can draw me a picture.’

  The three of us work all day in the ruined workshop to construct the crossbow from my memory of the diagram in the book. We find three lengths of roofing timber, twice as long as me, and make a channel out of them at the base of the bow forming a wide groove for the arrows to slide out of. We then use a long length of steel we take from the guano-drying drum mechanism to use as the curved bow part of the ballista. It is very flexible and springs back instantly when you bend it.

  ‘Red?’ asks the Captain when we take a break in the afternoon. ‘While Mr Smith and I work out a trigger system to fire this contraption, how about you plait together three lengths of fencing wire to use as the bowstring.’

  I am very good at plaiting, having done the hair of Sally, Meg and Julia, the barmaids at The Curse, countless times. They are always getting me to give them shoulder massages, and back and foot rubs, and to plait their hair. Maybe he knows that. Braiding wire may be slightly more difficult than Meg’s blonde hair, but at least I won’t be teased at the same time. I do miss the teasing from the three women — they make me laugh, and they treat me a bit with cakes and sweets, unlike Ma who is convinced everything I eat will spoil my dinner, rot my teeth or cause boils.