The Wreckers' Revenge

by Norman Jorgensen

  More bullets zing into the sea, some hitting it. Mrs Crawford is also at the rail with her Purdey. She too fires both barrels and reloads. Blood spurts from the shark’s side. The monster twists and turns in a furious frenzy. It leaps high from the water and barrel-rolls over, crashing back into the sea with an enormous splash.

  The Captain and Sam row the dinghy like demons, heaving on the oars and surging the small boat forward. The shark turns on them. Its jaws gape open as it lurches up to attack the dinghy. It rises from the sea and launches itself onto the bow. Its whole weight thumps down, shattering planks. Captain Bowen and Sam fall back and tumble from the board they sit on. Before the shark can slip back into the sea, the Captain pulls his Colt pistol from his belt and fires, repeatedly pulling the trigger. Shots crash loudly. Bullets slam into the shark’s head at point-blank range, punching holes and squirting blood. It thrashes about, its head half in the boat and its mouth snapping viciously. Its tail flicks frantically, kicking up spray in a violent rage. The gun clicks empty. Captain Bowen flings it at the shark. Sam throws his pistol to the Captain. He catches it by the handle and keeps on firing, fanning the hammer like a cowboy, putting all six shots in the tiger shark’s head. It still thrashes wildly, but slower now.

  Sam scrambles to his feet. He wrenches his oar from the rowlocks, lifts it high above his head and slams it down forcefully on the shark’s back, near the dorsal fin. It stops struggling, but the bow of the shattered dinghy leans alarmingly under the shark’s enormous weight. Within a minute, the gunwale dips beneath the surface and water gushes over it. Water pours in, and the boat immediately fills and quickly sinks, leaving the Captain and Sam splashing about in the sea, and the dead body of the shark sinking slowly.

  This time, I am positive I have wet myself at the sheer terror of it all.

  An hour later, on deck, I still shake like a leaf in a storm. I cannot stop. My heart, too, continues to thump like a bass drum, and I feel as sick as a dog. I sit on the hatch cover, drinking a cup of hot tea that tastes funny as I suspect Bosun Stevenson may have added something to it to quell my nerves. It is not working, though. Nothing short of knocking me out cold could.

  As we leave Flying Fish Cove, Mrs Crawford is at the helm again. I grip the rail to stop my hands shaking and look overboard into the crystal clear water. The tiger shark has finally disappeared from sight.

  Mrs Crawford turns the lugger to port and follows the curve of the north side of the island. Surrounding nearly all of Christmas Island is a shallow undersea shelf below the cliffs, not much wider than the length of a cricket pitch and no more than three fathoms deep. If you are diving, you can reach the bottom in a few strokes. Because the water is not cloudy like that in Broome, you can see every detail of the coral, every leaf on the swirling seaweed and the tiniest colourful fish as they dart about. At the edge of the ledge, the water turns dark blue and then black as the shelf ends and the ocean floor abruptly plunges, vertically, into the dark abyss where tiger sharks and all manner of deep-sea creatures lurk, just waiting to eat a ship’s boy like me.

  An hour after leaving, the Captain calls, ‘Now, gentlemen!’

  Mr Smith and Sam drop the mainsail and the jib, and, as the lugger glides to a halt, I run to the bow and let go the anchor.

  ‘So, Red,’ says the Captain, ‘William Dampier’s cave.’ We have anchored just at the edge of the shallow ocean shelf, directly opposite a break in the continuous rock cliffs. A small sandy beach no bigger than a room can be seen at the water’s edge, while behind the sand, a dark outline like a curved church door stains the jagged sandstone rock face. A huge boulder hides the entrance from this angle. Vegetation hangs down from the rocks above, and spikey wild bushes fill every space.

  ‘Is it a cave or just shadows?’ I ask.

  ‘Here’s your chance to find out,’ the Captain says, and indicates over the side with his thumb.

  Go back in the water? He has got to be kidding. I am never going back into the sea if I live to be a hundred years old. I look at my hand. It is still trembling.

  The Captain sees me hesitate and the look of dread that must be on my face. ‘They say that if you fall off a horse then you must immediately get back on, or you never will. Well, this is one of those times, Red. As Lady Macbeth says, screw your courage to the sticking place.’

  What courage? I’ve used it all up this past year. In fact, I know exactly where I want to stick Lady Macbeth’s advice. ‘But Captain …’

  ‘It’s okay, Red, sharks don’t come in this close to the coast. You’ll be fine.’

  Do I believe him?

  ‘Besides,’ he continues, ‘we no longer have a dinghy. Is Dampier’s gold just over there, within reach? You swim over and find out, or we sail away. It is up to you. A possible fortune in gold.’

  ‘Or possibly bit in half,’ I grumble. ‘Can’t Sam go?’

  ‘No, he twisted his ankle leaping into the dinghy. He needs to rest it.’

  I’m not wearing a shirt or shoes, so I am ready, but not that ready, and in my head, not ready at all. I make sure my knife is secure in its scabbard and climb up on the rail, then, breathing in half-a-dozen times or more, dive into the water. I open my eyes and as soon as the bubbles clear away, I see below me a cleft in the rocks like a channel that leads straight to the beach. I follow it, swimming underwater faster than I ever thought possible until I run out of air.

  When I surface, I am not far from the sand. I take a few more strokes, wade from the water and scramble up and onto the land before turning and waving back at the lugger. I also do a quick scan for any telltale fins in the water. I sit for longer than usual getting my breath back and wonder if I am the stupidest, greediest boy alive, going back in the ocean on the faint chance of finding gold after having narrowly survived a shark attack only an hour or so before. ‘Red James Read,’ I announce loudly, ‘you really are the most foolish, motley-minded measle imaginable.’

  Behind the boulder is indeed an open-faced cave, though it is not cavernous, and no bigger than my bedroom at the Curse. I can clearly see the back wall in spite of the shadows. The rock face of the cave is pitted, uneven and discoloured with lichen, barnacles and weeds, as well as stained with old tidemarks.

  I take my knife and dig around in the sand but it is shallow, and I soon hit a rocky base. Nothing could be buried here. There is a pile of small rough rocks the size of footballs against the back corner, and I move them, but again, nothing is buried or hidden. I stop. No, there is something strange among the rocks. I pick up an iron tube about a foot long. It could be a metal part from an old flintlock pistol but is too rusted and decayed to be sure. How did it get here? Could it be the remains of William Dampier’s pistol?

  I don’t want to head back to the lugger straight away, feeling like I haven’t searched enough, so I sit down to think and look around me more carefully. Has Dampier left a message or clues scratched in the cave walls? Over the next fifteen minutes I scurry about, studying every inch of the surface.

  As I sit down again, I see a small, perfectly circular pebble, as round and as thin as a coin, jammed in a cleft at the base of the boulder at my feet. Could it be? I realise I am holding my breath in excitement. I look about, half expecting to see William Dampier peering over my shoulder, or at least his ghost.

  Using my knife, I prise the circular pebble free. It comes out easily. It is definitely a coin. I scrape it with the end of my blade and silver shows through. I keep on scrubbing and rubbing it with wet sand under my thumb. Eventually, I can read the imprint on one side: Carolvs II Dei Gratia, with a picture of a long-haired man, and on the reverse, the date 1680. I learned enough at Christian Brothers to know Carolvs II was Charles II. King Charles of Spain. So I have a Spanish coin of precisely the sort that Dampier stole from the Spanish all those years ago in the West Indies, in an otherwise barren cave on Christmas Island. But where is the rest of the treasure? I don’t know if I should be happy with my small discovery, or miserable at not finding the
whole hoard worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. Where could it be? We must be on the right track. I can feel it in my bones.

  I scrape my knife against the base of the rock. Sand and coral come away. And then there is another perfectly round pebble, this one less encrusted. Seconds later, I find another and another. I dig furiously, scraping the ground like a rabbit digging a burrow. Within a few minutes, I have uncovered a dozen coins, then twenty, then as many as I can cup in both hands. Next, I hit metal, just like in the grave on Cocos. I think I have found another strong box. Think? I am sure of it. This one is mostly buried and half encrusted in the sandstone. There is no way I can free it with just my knife.

  ‘Damn!’ I cry in frustration. I continue scraping away at the metal box until I have cleared a straight line of the top edge and one side. It is definitely a chest. But is it full of treasure? Come hell or high water it has to be. I feel myself wishing it to be true. I have found William Dampier’s lost treasure. After two hundred years, Red Read has done it. I bang the lid with the pommel of my knife. It is a dull thud, not a hollow echo like the Cocos’ chest. All thought of the shark and my near-death experience from just an hour before leaves me. My hands have stopped shaking and can feel excitement building up deep inside me.

  ‘No, slow down. Red,’ I say, talking to myself. ‘Be realistic. It could be anything.’ But it couldn’t! It has to be Dampier’s …

  Crack! I look up, startled by the unexpected gunshot. I am behind the boulder and cannot see the lugger, so I carefully nudge my head around it, hoping no one is shooting at me. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime. More than enough.

  ‘Red! Red!’ It’s the Captain. He has just fired a pistol in the air. ‘Get back now!’ he shouts across the water.

  ‘No!’ I cry, ‘Not yet.’ But I cannot ignore the Captain’s call. Frustrated beyond measure, I take a deep breath, gather up the coins and stuff them in my pockets. I wade into the sea and head back to the lugger, swimming as fast as I can. As I reach the side, Captain Bowen leans down and grabs both my arms and swings me aboard.

  I reach into my pocket and pass him a handful of coins. ‘Look, Captain, I’ve found a strong box, but it is wedged in the sandstone. It’s about this long,’ I declare, holding hands wide apart to show him.

  ‘No time for that.’ He glances at me and then at the shore, but immediately puts the coins in his pocket. ‘The barometer is falling rapidly.’ He points to the horizon, due east. Ominous dark clouds billow up high, filling the perfect sky. ‘We get clear of here now or risk being driven onto the cliffs. Out in the open ocean, we stand a chance. This lugger doesn’t handle like the Dragon. And Red, if anyone gets washed overboard, this time stay on board, whatever you do. They can take their own chances.’

  ‘Where do you want me?’ I ask. ‘At the helm?’

  ‘We are shorthanded. Rowdy, Briggs and the Bosun are still not strong enough for a blow like this. On the main sheet for you and Sam. It’ll take every ounce of muscle you’ve got, and then some. Mr Smith can handle the jib. Like last time, Red, tie yourself on good and proper.’

  As I tie a bowline around my waist and pull it tight, I wonder if maybe Mr Smith was right and Dampier’s treasure is indeed cursed. With the dark sky looming over us and a killer storm rapidly approaching, it is very easy to believe.

  We are underway in minutes. Sam and I haul up the mainsail as quickly as it has ever been done. It catches the wind and instantly fills. Mrs Crawford spins the wheel, and we are off heading due east, leaving my treasure behind. The wind, increasing in speed every second, blows from the south-east, so the easterly tack has us reaching into it at a surprising rate of knots for this tub. White wake surges back from the stern, very similar to the Dragon at full pelt.

  It takes only half an hour for the rain to arrive. It is a driving deluge that stings my face and fills my eyes as I grip onto the mainsheet. It is looped around a cleat, but the strain on it is still enormous. I can’t let go to wipe the salt from my eyes, or the boom will swing wild, and we’ll capsize.

  ‘Mrs Crawford?’ the Captain calls. ‘This is a major blow if ever I’ve seen one. Can you handle it?’

  She nods her head, agreeing. ‘I’ve seen worse,’ she shouts over the wind. ‘Plenty of times.’

  ‘Hands apart as wide as possible on the spokes,’ the Captain commands. ‘Brace your feet and keep us on this course, south-east. Watch the front edge of the jib. If the canvas starts to flutter, pull back a degree or two.’

  Mrs Crawford nods, as if she doesn’t need telling.

  The Captain pulls himself along the boom to where Mr Smith and I battle against the mainsheet. ‘I’ll take it, Red!’ he shouts over the noise. ‘You lower the main by a third. Sam, reef it in.’

  Soon, it is difficult to hear him over the roar of the wind and all the cracks and groans from every protesting rope and plank on the lugger. We have to keep the lugger moving forward, though. Otherwise, we will soon be swamped.

  I untie the halyard and, inch by inch, lower the gaff and sail down the mast as Sam gathers the spare canvas and pulls it to his chest, but the wind keeps catching it before he can fold it and tie it down. It takes a long while for him to finally succeed. All the time, Captain Bowen leans back, his feet wedged, his arms bulging, as he fights against the pressure on the mainsheet.

  Mrs Crawford, her face set in grim determination, with her long red hair blowing wildly in the wind, controls the wheel like an old seafarer, continually checking the jib and the compass.

  The storm is not the worst I have faced, but it continues all night, lashing us with soaking fury, until, about an hour after dawn, it fades away and everything goes quiet. Even the sky lightens up, and patches of blue appear through the clouds.

  ‘That was some storm. The tail end of another cyclone, if I’m any judge,’ says Mr Smith. ‘I must be getting old. I’m all done in.’

  ‘Mrs Crawford,’ says the Captain, ‘that was a magnificent effort. My compliments on a job well done.’ He bows his head. ‘My gratitude is sincere and heartfelt. You handled that like the helmsman on the Cutty Sark braving the Roaring Forties.’

  Mrs Crawford beams back at him as if he has just offered her the crown jewels. She lets out a long sigh. ‘Thank you, Captain Bowen. And Mr Smith, I too am exhausted. A hot cup of tea would work wonders, don’t you think?’

  As if summoned by a silent bell, Bosun Stevenson appears at the steps carrying a tray of tea mugs. ‘I am so sorry I could not be of more help, Captain. But this disease has left me helpless.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve been replaced, Bosun,’ laughs the Captain, ‘by Mrs Crawford here, as fine a sailor as ever lived. Isn’t that right, men?’

  We all nod seriously.

  ‘As fine as Lord Nelson,’ agrees Mr Smith. ‘No, finer!’

  Bosun Stevenson sees the joke, but I can tell he is not happy being teased like this. Maybe he should take a lesson from the way I handle it. I get continuously teased by everyone, all the time, but I get over it quickly enough. Then, when I do, they find something else to tease me about.

  Mrs Crawford, though, seems very pleased with the compliment. I suspect that, like my ma and a lot of other women, she is sick to death of being underestimated all the time. But I also imagine that, like my ma, strangers only ever underestimate her once. Or live to regret it.

  HEADING HOME

  Over the next ten days, we continue south-east, heading for home. After the storm, it all seems too tranquil as we have steady breezes, low swell and clear, starlit nights.

  I am at the helm at the second dog watch, dinnertime, feeling relaxed and whistling quietly to myself. The Tartar is under full sail, and the breeze on my face is fresh and pleasant and steady. I can’t quite believe this eventful voyage is nearly over and I have managed to stay alive. In fact, I am amazed all the crew has survived even though sudden death has repeatedly stalked us, more times than any of us would like. I think the cold, dead eye of the tiger shark staring at its next
meal, me, was the worst, though the charging wild boar was absolutely terrifying as well, to say nothing of the Cossack wreckers shooting at us, bullets passing inches over my head.

  Everyone else is below, so I have my thoughts to myself for the next few hours. I decide to think about Anna.

  Not ten minutes later, by the biggest coincidence imaginable, Anna appears from below holding a mug. ‘Red, Sam made you some tea,’ she says. She hands over the mug and leans back against the stern rail, letting the breeze blow her hair. ‘It’s nice up on deck.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ I can’t seem to think of anything else worthy to say.

  ‘What are you going to do when you get home?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t know anymore. We no longer have a ship,’ I reply.

  ‘You have this one. Why don’t you go pearling? I’ve heard the pearling masters are all rich.’

  ‘Pearling is a mug’s game,’ I reply, ‘and the pearling masters aren’t really rich. They just pretend to be. They give themselves airs and graces, and get around in white linen suits and calfskin boots and drink champagne for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Most of them don’t have two bob to rub together and are in debt up to their eyeballs. Hundreds of pounds, some of them. They think they are superior like the upper class and they treat their workers badly. Especially the Aboriginal divers.’

  ‘Really?’ Anna asks. ‘Why are they so mean?’