‘Now that’s rubbing salt in the wounds,’ groans Mr Cord, rubbing his stomach as someone’s lunch of cabbage and onions wafts over us. It is not the spicy smell of local Sumatran food, but that of Europeans — Dutchmen.
‘Bosun Stevenson,’ says the Captain. ‘Can you see somewhere quiet to land? No need to scare the locals by arriving armed and dangerous on their front door, right at midday when most people are taking it easy. Fortunate timing actually. We can be in and out of here before anyone wakes up and even notices.’
‘Cap’n,’ says Mr Smith. ‘The Dutch don’t take siestas I seems to remember.’
‘You are right, Mr Smith. We’ll need to be doubly careful.’
‘Captain,’ says Bosun Stevenson. ‘That stand of coconut palms ahead there, at the water’s edge would be a good spot. The bottom looks clear, and the trees will afford some shade.’
The Captain agrees.
The Bosun adjusts the tiller slightly. ‘Starboard side, half a stroke. Port side, ship oars.’
We do as he calls, and the dinghy glides to a halt on the sand, so the Captain is able to step ashore from the bow without getting his boots wet.
‘Thank you Bosun Stevenson, and well done as usual,’ he says. ‘Stay and guard the dinghy while the rest of us go and forage in the town. Take only pistols, men, and keep them hidden as much as possible. Remember, we want to look like regular ship’s crew, not a gang of foreign pirates coming to plunder. That could be a barracks, so if you see a uniform, hide. We don’t need a repeat of last time we were in these climes. Keep your wits about you.’
‘Those what has wits,’ says the Bosun, quietly.
‘As before, Mr Smith,’ continues the Captain. ‘You and Mr Cord follow behind and watch our backs.’
CAPTURED
Something about the town gives me the creeps. The native buildings are mostly old and shabby and built on stilts, with raised wooden walkways connecting them. The shutters and doors are all closed against the sun. The streets seem to creak like a sailing ship as the wind whistles around the bamboo huts and along narrow alleyways. Open drains full of rubbish run down the middle of the muddy streets.
Fishermen’s discarded nets and pots and ropes and every kind of jetsam are strewn about the waterfront. Fishing boats bob at their moorings. Behind the warehouses, a maze of narrow lanes and passages and more open drains and walkways wiggle back up the hill towards the mosque.
At the corner where two warehouses meet and form a square, a ragged canvas awning hangs from four poles. Three prisoners dressed in rags and parts of uniform sprawl beneath it in the shade, all asleep. None wear boots and their ankles have been chained to bolts in the wall. Nearby, in front of a pockmarked section of a wall, a single, red-stained pole stands menacingly.
Can that be a firing squad pole? What do they have around the next corner, an armed welcoming committee? I feel even more nervous than usual. I have every reason to be. We are a tiny bunch of lightly armed foreigners in what looks to be a new garrison town in a Dutch colony during a war.
Within ten minutes, we find bread by following our noses. The smell of freshly cooked loaves is particularly delicious considering how ravenously hungry we all are.
Mr Smith bangs heavily on the door with the butt of his Colt.
A sweating local man peers out. He wipes his hands on his dirty apron. ‘Eh?’ he shouts. When the Captain takes several shiny coins from his pocket and places them on the baker’s palm, his frown turns to a reluctant smile. He immediately swings the door open wider and begins loading flour sacks with bread.
‘Boy,’ orders the Captain. ‘Have a scout down that street and see if you can find someone who’ll sell us some meat. Not monkey mind you. I still can’t get the damn taste out of my mouth.’
I head outside, but regrettably, I soon find more than meat. I have gone less than a hundred paces when a Dutch soldier steps from a doorway right into my path. I stop in surprise. He holds a rifle with the longest silver bayonet attached, pointed directly at my chest. Startled, I find myself, within seconds, surrounded by a mass of blue and white uniforms.
‘I’m a civilian!’ I protest. ‘A sailor.’ When that does not work, I try, ‘I’m a schoolboy.’ However, the soldiers just urge me back along the street without a word, pointing their rifles.
‘Oh, not youse too,’ says Mr Smith, quietly. He stands in the laneway with his hands tied in front of him and a soldier pointing a rifle at his head.
As the Captain steps into the street from the bread house, his pistol is wrenched from his grip. There is no point struggling as there are just too many soldiers.
Like a herd of sheep, we are shepherded along the alleyways to a square near the boat harbour and up to the wall of a warehouse.
With the stories Teuku had told me about the Dutch, I wonder if they are about to shoot us there and then against the wall.
‘Sit!’ orders a soldier instead.
An hour or more passes, though it feels like much longer with the sun beating down on us. We can hear muffled screams somewhere nearby. It is a truly terrifying noise, like someone in complete agony. The crew glance at each other uneasily. What is happening? What horrible fate awaits us? Are we to be next?
Mr Smith frowns. ‘That don’t sound too good. Not good at all.’
The soldiers are restless and appear to be waiting for someone or something. They pace up and down but never take their eyes from us. Eventually, a young lieutenant carrying a bunch of keys arrives. He is red in the face, his uniform is buttoned up incorrectly, his hat is missing and his braces hang below his tunic. Maybe he had been having one of those siestas that the Dutch aren’t supposed to have.
The young lieutenant rattles the lock open and the soldiers force us into the pitch black of the tin warehouse with the point of their bayonets.
‘What’s that pong?’ asks Briggs, looking shocked.
As Mr Smith, the last man goes in, the soldier hands him a bucket. ‘Water,’ he says. The door is bolted behind us with a final, ominous clang.
‘I’ll wager this be not ’ow youse planned for the day to go, Cap’n,’ says Mr Smith, with a sigh.
‘Indeed not, Mr Smith. Any suggestions on how we might improve it?’
‘I’m thinkin’ a huge roast of fresh spring lamb with mint sauce, just like my old ma used to cook, would finish the day off better.’
‘I was thinking more along the lines of suggestions on how we get out of this rather smelly, hot tin box before they shoot us all.’
‘Sorry, Cap’n. Just tryin’ to …’ Mr Smith’s voice trails away, embarrassed.
IN THE PRISON CELL
It takes some while to become accustomed to the gloom and the stench and the baking heat radiating from the tin walls. The warehouse must have been used for drying fish or shark fin or something similar in the recent past as the strong smell lingers. Light from rust holes in the roof high above casts patterns on the floor. I watch as an enormous black rat scurries into a pile of rags in the far corner. A soft groan comes from the clothes, and a tattooed arm raises slowly and drops suddenly.
‘It’s Stevenson,’ cries Mr Smith in surprise. ‘They’ve gone and captured ’im as well.’
Bosun Stevenson lies spread-eagled on his back, shivering, with his head turned away from the wall. Even in the dim light, it is obvious that he has been severely beaten. Both his eyes are bruised and swollen. His nose is caked in dried blood, as are the edges of his mouth. Because his shirt has been half torn off, we can see deep, dark bruises and red welts on much of his body.
‘Captain, look!’ says Mr Smith, his voice filled with alarm. He points at the Bosun’s feet. They are a swollen mess of burnt and blistered skin. Vivid red and blackish stripes crisscross the soles of his feet. ‘Them Dutchies have gone and tortured him, they have … with hot irons. They’ve branded his feet like a calf ’ide. That must have been the screams we ’eard. No wonder.’
The Captain kneels and cups Bosun Stevenson’s head in his
hands, lifting him gently. ‘Harry, my dear friend, what they have done to you?’ he whispers.
The Captain takes off his sweat scarf, folds it and carefully places it under Bosun Stevenson’s head. Though barely conscious, the poor man tries to nod in gratitude. There is little else we can do for him as we have no medicine or food, only the bucket of rank water.
The Captain holds Bosun Stevenson’s hand and sits in brooding silence. Occasionally, Mr Smith pours a little water on Bosun Stevenson’s burnt feet. The rest of us sit along the wall, waiting for something to happen.
The sound of boots in unison echo on the path outside. The bolt lifts and the door creaks open. It is almost dark outside. A senior officer and two guards step in and stand in the gloom, their faces barely visible in the shadows. The guards’ white uniform pants are grubby, and their boots are scuffed and worn. The officer, unlike the lieutenant, though, is impeccably dressed, his boots polished, his tunic buttons shiny and done up to his neck. He obviously has a lackey to dress him and do all his work.
‘Captain Bowen,’ sneers the officer.
The Captain rises from where he sits on the floor beside poor Bosun Stevenson. He holds himself straight and then bows slightly, as befitting an officer meeting another of his class.
‘Commandant Vetter at your service,’ continues the officer, his English perfect and with hardly a trace of an accent. ‘Your reputation is well known along this coast, Captain, as indeed are your recent exploits.’
‘Commandant Vetter, you are too kind,’ he says. ‘But you must be misinformed. I am a humble sea trader, and one who needs to be about his business. As I’m sure you are aware in these modern times, commerce waits for no man.’
‘It seems our business interests have crossed, sir. I have been expecting to intercept a cargo from one of your countrymen, Captain Josiah Sims. It seems that Captain Sims and his crew are missing and his cargo has gone astray. A consignment of guns.’
Our Captain smiles politely. ‘Sir?’
‘I suspect that judging from the box of brand new Enfield rifles my men found in your dinghy, you may be able to shed some light on the matter, and perhaps on the fate of Captain Sims. Though his welfare is of little concern to me.’
‘Commandant, as I said, I need to be about my business and the hour is getting late.’
‘I am a most reasonable man, Captain,’ Commandant Vetter continues, his voice calm. ‘And I’m more than willing for you and your men to go free immediately, just as soon as I recover Captain Sims’ cargo. I cannot tell you how bitterly frustrated I was to find it had gone astray.’
‘I am sorry to disappoint you, Commandant, but that will not be possible,’ the Captain replies.
‘The truth is,’ says the Commandant. ‘You have no choice but to tell me where your ship is moored so I can collect the cargo. I am not a barbaric man. I am willing to wait a short while for you to reconsider.’ He nods toward the corner where Bosun Stevenson lies. ‘Your bosun was just as uncooperative. Even after some vigorous persuasion. Such loyalty in your men is to be commended.’
Mr Smith’s face creases with a dark frown.
‘Sir, you will forgive me, I’m sure, for speaking bluntly,’ says the Captain, surprisingly politely. ‘But since we have been guests in your delightful warehouse I cannot help but notice the smell of burnt and tortured flesh. Perhaps we have different thoughts as to the term barbaric. It is fortunate for you I found Bosun Stevenson still alive.
The Commandant snorts slightly in disbelief.
‘There will be no negotiation,’ says the Captain, his voice firm.
‘In that case, Captain, I will be forced to hang one of your men each hour and every hour, in the proper English fashion, until you reconsider my small request. I want those guns, and I’m prepared for you to pay the price, Captain. I will not hesitate, believe me.’ The Commandant shrugs his shoulders and turns his palms out as if being reasonable.
In the silence that follows, I hear Mr Smith suck in his breath.
‘Commandant, hear me now and hear me well,’ the Captain’s voice is cold and menacing. ‘You will not be hanging any of my men, now or ever.’ I wonder how he can sound so confident, considering we are locked in a prison with no obvious way of escape.
The Commandant bristles. ‘You appear to forget who the prisoner is here, my colonial colleague. You and your men are nothing but common criminals and enemies of our Kingdom,’ he snarls. ‘I’m sorry to disillusion you, Captain, but I most certainly will hang your men, starting with the boy right here by my feet.’ He gives me a kick as if I am a troublesome puppy.
Hang me? My stomach turns to mush. My mouth is dry, and as much as I want to protest, no sound comes from my lips.
‘That is not going to happen,’ declares the Captain.
The Commandant’s temper erupts at the Captain’s defiant stance. He lashes out his fist, hitting the Captain’s cheek and knocking him off balance. The Captain’s head snaps back. He bends forward as if to recover. Because I sit on the floor right near his feet, I have a good view of his face. Surprisingly, he winks at me. As he straightens, his hand comes up as quick as a flash. In it, he grips the thin black stiletto blade he keeps hidden in the rim of his right boot.
Before the soldiers can react, the Captain swings back on his heels, sweeping his hand in front of him as if flicking pebbles into a pond. The point of his blade slashes opens the forearm of the guard on his left. His blue sleeve instantly turns dark. The guard looks down in surprise and lets out a scream like a banshee. Before the other guard even understands, the Captain swings his boot straight into the man’s groin with all the force of a long kick for goal. The man goes down with a howl of pain and surprise. As the guards’ guns clatter to the earth floor, the point of the Captain’s blade comes to rest under the Commandant’s chin. His eyes bulge at the sudden and unexpected action.
‘No one has ever tortured one of my men and lived to boast about it,’ whispers the Captain in a voice so low that only those very close can hear him. It is as if the Grim Reaper himself has spoken. ‘And you are not about to be the first. Like me, Vetter, your reputation precedes you. You are far too keen on the firing squad from all reports. You can shoot every single damn Dutchman for all I care and don’t stop when you get to your King. But when you start on prisoners, like I suspect happened earlier today, you should remember Matthew 26:52. I am not an overly religious man, but I keep that section of the King James Bible in mind: “All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword”.’
The Commandant’s eyes are wide with terror, and I see his trousers darken at the front as he wets himself.
‘No doubt I too will go the way of the sword for my sins,’ continues the Captain. ‘But I am hopeful it may not be for some time yet. The last name you will hear before I send your soul to Hell will not be mine, but that of Harold Fletcher Stevenson, Master Mariner, one of the finest men alive. A decent man. Unlike you, you miserable maggot, who has no understanding of what decency even means. The Devil take you, you foul excuse for a man.’
I see only the slightest movement of the Captain’s hand as he slides the knife up and in under the commandant’s chin. Vetter’s legs buckle, and he crumples to the floor. A thin trickle of blood from under his chin stains the clean white collar at his neck.
‘Nobody harms my crew,’ repeats the Captain, retrieving his blade. ‘Nobody.’
ESCAPE
Mr Smith bends to pick up one of the fallen rifles and points it at the guards, who look dazed and in a lot of pain. He waves them towards the corner. ‘Sit! But one word until we are well clear, and I’ll be back to gut youse both like a couple of saltwater trout. Understand?’ he orders.
I imagine the guards do not understand, but from the tone of Mr Smith’s voice, it is more than clear what he means. I suddenly realise I have barely breathed at all in the last minutes, scarcely believing what has happened. There is no time to relax, though. We are still a long way from safety yet.
&n
bsp; Mr Smith checks the load on the rifle and goes to the door. He calls out, ‘It’s dark enough outside. The soldiers are gathered over yonder. Having the time of their lives, sounds like. We can make a run for it.’
‘The wind, Mr Smith?’ asks the Captain. ‘Still nor-easterly?’
‘Afraid so. At least fifteen knots.’
‘Then it looks as if we’ll have to go by foot,’ he replies. ‘Before we do, Briggs, can you get to the waterfront and create some confusion. Give then something better to do than chase after us.’
Briggs expertly twists the bayonet from the end of the rifle and slides it into his belt. ‘Just in case,’ he says, before he slips out, keeping close to the walls and the darkest places.
He is back within ten minutes, looking puffed but pleased with himself.
‘There’s no one about down there, so I let all their boats go, Captain. Cut the mooring on every one. With this wind, it should be a right mad dog’s breakfast in the harbour before too long. Beached. Banged into each other. Then I set one alight. Ha! That’ll keep them all busy for hours. Boats burn so fierce. And with this wind, it’ll be a right old bonfire in no time.’
The Captain grins. ‘I imagine if we head back through the town and up the hill, we can then follow the coast. It’s a dark enough night, so we should get a distance between us before anyone notices. Though I suspect that maggot, Vetter, was the only one interested,’ he adds as he looks over at the dead body.
‘Grab his boots will you, boy. Bosun Stevenson might need a decent pair as his feet recover.’
As I go to haul off Vetter’s boots, he adds, ‘And see if he has any keys on him. We may as well unlock those three unfortunates chained up outside. I don’t like their chances of surviving otherwise.’
The Smuggler's Curse Page 8
