‘Well done, Mr Cord,’ says the Captain, just loud enough for him to hear. ‘Remind me to call on your excellent services again.’
Mr Cord smiles proudly in gratitude at the Captain’s comment and touches his fingers to his forehead, almost in a salute.
‘None of that Navy malarkey,’ snaps Mr Smith.
‘I wasn’t saluting,’ protests Mr Cord. ‘I’ve forgotten how. I was just waving away a bug.’
I wonder when we get back to Broome if Mr Cord will tell his son Albert what he has done, stabbing a robber to death in the street?
‘Now, down there with him, men,’ says the Captain. ‘If you would be so kind.’ He points to a set of stairs at the side of the church that lead down into what is probably the crypt. The two men pick up the dead man and lift him over the metal railing. They throw him down the stairs and into the darkness with no more thought than if they were unloading a sack of potatoes. I feel a bit sick.
The Chinese drinking house smells different to the Smuggler’s Curse, but I can hear the sound of woks sizzling, pans banging and cooks shouting wildly at each other from the kitchen, just like China Town back in Broome.
The Captain and I take a seat outside at a table to the right of the front door. Overhead, a sign painted with a green stylised dragon squeaks in time to the cool breeze blowing up from the harbour. At a bench nearby, a trencher piled high with dead insects smells a bit like our cesspit at home, and looks no better.
‘How can anyone like scorpions and seahorses and crickets in preference to good Kimberley roast beef?’ I ask the Captain.
‘You get used to it, boy. That’s garlic they smother everything with. And fish sauce. And ginger. Covers all manner of sins. Wait until you’ve tried it before you criticise. Some of the best food I’ve ever eaten.’
It is going to be a very long wait, I decide, before I eat any of that ghastly looking stuff. A very long wait indeed.
Mr Smith stands half-hidden in the shadow of a doorway directly opposite, and Mr Cord behind a wagon laden high with bags of rice just along the street. If any trouble breaks out, they can both be with us in a few strides.
Chang Pao and another younger man, who looks enough like him to be his son, arrive in a rickshaw hauled along by a fit looking puller. I notice them pause and glance down at the fresh blood on the ground as the rickshaw passes the church.
Chang Pao is well dressed in a European-style white suit like a pearling master, but with riding boots. Grey hair shows from under his Panama hat. He has the contented look of a gentleman who has too much food and wine and too little to do. His son, taller and in his prime, has the swagger of a powerful, wealthy man, but he lets his father lead the way into the square.
The Captain takes his pistol from his belt as they walk towards us and passes it under the table to me. ‘Boy,’ he says. ‘I don’t trust this old crook. Knowing him, he’s probably got a whole regiment of the Singapore constabulary waiting around that corner.’ He points to a rice shop at the other end of the square where hundreds of bags are lined up on shelves. ‘Position yourself over there and if you see anything, fire the gun and we’ll be out of here quicker than Jack Robinson.’
I nod, hoping the police are not close by.
‘And boy,’ he continues. ‘If all is safe, wait at the corner but keep a close eye back here at young Chang Pao. I’ve heard he’s as slippery as his father and twice as crooked. One foul move from him and you can give him a new red waistcoat and new buttonhole. You might not kill him from that distance, but it’ll give him a great big surprise, and that is most of the battle. Just remember what Mr Smith taught you.’
‘One foul move it is then.’ I take the gun, the same heavy Colt I’d been practicing with over the ship’s rail. I hide it in my shirt and head into the street, feeling like a character in one of my books, trying not to be noticed by the crowd of noisy men all around us.
As I reach the rice merchant’s doorway and look back, I wonder if I will be able to shoot young Chang Pao in cold blood. More importantly, how will I know what is a foul move or him merely reaching for his cigarette case? I don’t like my chances of getting it right.
A few minutes later, the Captain holds his hand up indicating all is fine, and I relax a little, though not too much. After all, I stand on a street corner in dangerous Singapore, and any moment, a soldier or a constable might come along and start asking me questions I can’t answer.
From where I stand, I cannot hear their conversation, but there does not seem to be any tension or trouble between them. In fact, I can see them laughing and enjoying a huge joke.
Eventually, after handshakes all round, Chang Pao and his son leave, returning the same way they arrived by the church road.
The Captain waves me back. ‘Sit,’ he commands.
‘Did you do a deal, Captain?’ I ask after we sit in silence for a few moments as Mr Smith and Mr Cord make their way towards us.
‘Indeed, boy, a good deal, if they deliver what they promise.’
I hand back his pistol.
‘Keep it, boy, at least until we get back to the ship,’ he says. ‘You never can tell what trouble lurks in these dark alleyways.’
I look about, nervous again. The Captain could be right, and it is a long, dark walk back to the harbour and the safety of the Dragon. And we have killed a man in the street. I wonder if he has friends who will want revenge. I hope no one has discovered his body yet.
Luckily, the lurking trouble stays away a little while longer.
THE CARGO
At the mainmast, Bosun Stevenson lights a glass-sided lantern and hauls it up high with a light line. He quickly lowers it and then raises it again several times, evidently sending a signal.
‘There it is!’ calls the Bosun.
Way off in the distance, on a hill to the left of the lights of the Singapore settlement, across on the Malayan mainland, a single light suddenly flashes. It comes back four more times.
‘What’s he like, Captain, this new bloke?’ asks Bosun Stevenson.
‘I haven’t met him. He’s one of Chang Pao’s captains — a pirate,’ laughs the Captain. ‘What more do I need to say? But we’ve been promised a good price.’
‘You trust him?’
‘Who, Chang Po?’ asks the Captain. ‘About as much as I’d trust Old Nick himself. Chang Pao was a pirate like no other, with a whole fleet of ships, though he reckons he’s retired. Retired? Ha! He sits up in that big house of his sponsoring all kinds of thieves and felons and gentlemen of the sea. He makes far more money from his kickbacks and commissions than he ever did riding the high seas himself.’
‘You, boy,’ commands the Captain, seeing me listening. ‘You can handle an oar tonight. We’ll get you toughened up even if we have to kill you doing so, eh men?’
The men laugh, happy at the thought of me getting killed, I suspect. I nod slowly, embarrassed and unsure. Is this how the new ship’s boy is to meet his fate? Ambushed on a deserted Malayan beach by a regiment of government troops or skinned alive and sold for a satchel?
We row quietly through the darkness to the shore, the slap and groan of the oars surprisingly loud on a calm night. The Captain must have selected this particular hour for the delivery based on the moon, for it appears as a mere slither of a fingernail, making the darkness even deeper. I can hardly see the man in front of me, but the others have obviously done this many times before and it does not seem to worry them overmuch.
The tide is out and the beach sand hard and wide. A tiny amount of moonlight reflects off its wet surface, making it a little easier to see when we reach the shore and pull the boats clear, the bows resting on the sand.
Back from the water’s edge, at least six men stand in a group beside a small trading junk, its flat bottom resting on the sand. The open hold is loaded high with small kegs.
I look quizzically at Mr Smith and he whispers in reply, ‘They’re firkins of brandy, Red.’
Bosun Stevenson and the junk’s master ex
change a few halting words, and then the Bosun hands over a calico bag, full of coins by the sound of it. The junk’s master jerks it a few times as if mentally weighing it. ‘You don’t need to count it,’ the Bosun says firmly. ‘It’s gold. Everyone knows Captain Bowen’s word is solid.’
The junk’s master shrugs and spits out a wad of phlegm.
‘Set to, men. We don’t have all night,’ orders the Bosun. ‘God’s tide waits for no man, so get a move on you laggards.’
The pirate crew stand idly by while we transfer the firkins to our boats, carrying them one at a time. The pirates seem nervous and anxious to be away from the beach, and certainly away from us. They watch intently at every firkin being manhandled. When a barrel is dropped on the sand, several of them gasp. I wonder what they are so nervous about, other than getting caught by the government.
One man can just lift a firkin, but it is heavy going and awkward, and for me – impossible. We soon pair up and carry one between two until the tide starts to turn. Then it is back to one per man again and in a real hurry. The men are puffing and panting in the humid night air as the shallows lap insistently at their ankles and grow deeper by the minute.
It is well past midnight by the time we haul the last of the firkins on to the deck of the Dragon using a block and tackle tied to the boom and a net swung out over the side as a makeshift hoist. Working without lanterns makes it a difficult job, especially when the kegs have to be stowed below. I soon discover the Dragon has a secret compartment beneath the Captain’s cabin that can be reached only by removing wall panelling.
‘A tidy night’s work, men,’ announces the Captain at first light. Most of the men are on deck, coming or going as the crew change over for the morning watch. The Captain looks around at the faces and nods or smiles at each one. ‘I saved back one of the kegs. I think we earned a nip or two, this beautiful morning.’
And indeed, it is a very fine morning. By this time, we are well offshore, though Singapore Island still appears as a bluish smudge on the horizon.
The men do not cheer, as I might have expected, but a happy sounding murmur passes among them.
‘Sam Chi, do you think you can rustle up a tap?’
Sam Chi grins. He holds the tap and wooden mallet in his hand ready. He bangs the tap in the bunghole, turns it and fills up a tankard.
Bosun Stevenson is first in line at the keg. He takes a long, deep swig from the tankard, but almost instantly sprays the whole mouthful across the deck. ‘By the Devil’s horns, it’s seawater! The pox-ridden rogues have cheated us!’
CROSSED
The Captain’s eyes narrow and flash in anger, and his shoulders square up. ‘Sam Chi, get below and see if the other kegs are the same. So help me …’ He pauses for a moment and scans the horizon. ‘So help them, more like.’
Sam Chi returns a short while later, puffed and red in the face. ‘I checked six, Captain. All water.’
A long silence follows, broken only by the sounds of the wind and the creak of the ship. After what seems like an age, the Captain speaks. ‘Boy?’ he says, his voice cold.
‘Sir?’
‘You remember you asked me about my name? Why folk call me Black Bowen? Well, you are about to find out why. If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?’ He looks to the shore. ‘My oath, we shall revenge.’
I just nod, not knowing what I should say.
‘You saw their boat, Bosun Stevenson?’ the Captain continues.
‘Aye, Captain, the usual forty-foot trading junk. Two masts, high stern battened sails, red, maybe. It was hard to see in the dark. Six crew, including that accursed dog of a master.’
‘Accursed dog? You can say that again. I curse him now, and I’ll curse him again all the way to seven kinds of Hell as I flay the skin from his miserable hide. He’ll be begging for mercy, and it won’t be coming. No one cheats Black Bowen and lives to brag about it. No one cheats the crew of the Black Dragon. Isn’t that right, men?’
This time the crew all cheer.
‘It’s not Chang Pao that’s cheated us then?’ asks Bosun Stevenson.
‘No, probably not. But I’ll be having a quiet word with him next time, that’s for sure. He can learn the meaning of the words compensation, reimbursement, and reparation all at once. Or he can learn the words bloody revenge. He knows I’m a good customer and he will want to keep dealing with me, long term. No, this will be his captain trying to double his money. He runs off with the brandy and the gold as well. A good bargain if you can get away with it. But you need the courage to face both me and Chang Pao if you don’t. In the meantime, we’ll try and get our gold back. And sort out those barefaced thieves.’
‘He’ll be a brave man then, that junk captain,’ says one of the crew.
‘Bloody idiot if you ask me,’ says another. ‘He’ll be seeing his own gizzards spread all over, before too long. Of that, I’m certain.’
‘Boy, to the masthead,’ barks the Bosun. ‘Get closer to God. Younger eyes can see further. You as well, Teuku. Let me know the second you spot the scurvy, pox-ridden knaves. The very second, mind you.’
‘Did you get their language Bosun Stevenson, their dialect? Did you deduce where the maggots hail from?’ asks the Captain.
‘The skipper at least. Malay, I’d guess. The others stayed pretty quiet,’ the Bosun replies. ‘Nervous like.’
‘Guilty conscience I’d wager. Worried we’d smell them out sooner. Well, they’ll be in a right hurry to get home, and away from us. West it is Bosun. All canvas if you please,’ commands the Captain. ‘Every stitch you can get aloft until the sticks beg for mercy.’
‘You heard the Captain! All canvas! Step lively!’ shouts the Bosun, without using his trumpet. The deck immediately transforms into a colony of rushing ants, with each man knowing precisely what he has to do.
The Captain turns to me, ‘Boy, fetch me the open chart from my table. At the double!’
I hurry down the steps towards the Captain’s cabin and return with the chart.
The Captain glances at the map. ‘The only way is up the Malacca Straits between Malaya and Sumatra. With this breeze, they’ll have to head directly towards Sumatra then tack north from there. That’s when we’ll catch up with them. Those junks don’t tack too well.’ He smiles wickedly. ‘Whereas we do. And God help their wretched, miserable hides when we reach them.’
‘Red, Teuku,’ calls out Bosun Stevenson. ‘Watch for a lighthouse on top of the cliffs. It should be off the port side as you go. A squat, square monstrosity it is too. Brown not white. Everyone in these parts uses that as a marker. That’s what they’ll aim for.’
I shoot up the ratlines like a rat across a hot tin roof and even beat Teuku to the crow’s nest.
By midday, I am getting drowsy, with the mast swinging, the sun hot on my back, and not having had any breakfast. We have been sailing at full pace since daybreak.
A shout from Teuku startles me. ‘The lighthouse!’ he yells, pointing left. ‘I see it.’
I peer towards the land in the distance and locate the brown brick lighthouse, jutting up into the sky. I do not know how I missed seeing it sooner. The thing stands out like a Christmas tree. Then something else catches my eye. Below the lighthouse and far to the left, silhouetted against the rugged face of the sea cliffs, a fishing junk with a dirty red sail beats hard against the wind. It dips in and out of sight with the swell, waves crashing over its bow. It is just as the Captain has predicted.
‘And there she is, Captain,’ I, too, call. ‘The trading junk. Way back, just beyond where the cliff has collapsed. Running along the coast.’
‘Well done, lads,’ calls up Bosun Stevenson, this time using his trumpet. ‘You can be relieved now. Get down here. Longest way if you like.’
Teuku slides down the shroud like a monkey, but I climb down carefully, reach the deck and grip the railing to keep myself steady. Up at the ma
sthead, I had not noticed how quickly we were moving, but at deck level and looking over the railing, the speed is remarkable. The wind stretches the canvas sails to breaking point, and water swishes past the hull, leaving a long white wake trailing behind us.
‘You ever played chess, boy?’
I look over my shoulder, surprised the Captain is actually talking to me and not just sending me to fetch and carry, as usual. ‘Chess? Not much, sir. Sometimes. Back at the Curse. Dominos, though, mostly.’
‘An interesting set of moves this could be. Black Knight to move. Do we get ahead of them and force them onto a port tack and straight into the cliffs? With these waves, they’ll be smashed to pieces on the rocks in seconds. Or do we get in close and blow the blaggards out of the water? I suppose we could sit back here and use them as long-range target practice all afternoon. Long Tom would make merry Hell with a junk like that. Blast them into twigs. Checkmate.’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ I reply, pathetically. Well, I don’t.
‘Remember, they’ve got a bagful of our gold on board, Captain,’ interrupts Bosun Stevenson.
‘And we have a hold full of expensive sea water for our trouble,’ replies the Captain, thoughtfully. ‘But you are right, Bosun. There’s no point in sending hard-earned gold to the bottom if we can recover it from those …’ He hesitates then spits it out venomously, ‘… those cockroaches.’
‘I can put a shot across her bow, get ’em to surrender,’ offers Mr Smith.
‘They’ll not surrender,’ replies the Captain grimly. ‘Not in a million years. They know full well we’ll gut their gizzards like so many barracudas the minute we get our hands on them. They know who I am. They would have heard the stories.’
‘Double charge Long Tom, Mr Smith,’ he continues. ‘As soon as we’re in range, drop a shot in behind them. We’ll see if we can drive them towards the open sea. They’ll try to out run us and reach the island’s coves facing the north coast but they have no chance of that, especially in this breeze.’
The gun crew are ready in minutes. Mr Smith peers along the barrel and using a wheel on a long screw, adjusts the gun carriage to its maximum height for the longest shot. Eventually, he seems satisfied and looks up, ready to pull the cord on the trigger.
The Smuggler's Curse Page 4
