‘Bosun Stevenson?’ asks Mr Smith.
‘Help me with him, men. Careful, mind you, he’s well hurt,’ replies the Captain.
The Captain carries Bosun Stevenson on his back until we reach the last houses. In the darkness, we see not a soul. Further back, at the harbour, the glow of rapidly spreading fire lights up the sky.
At the edge of the village, we take a batik sheet from a clothesline. When we are well clear of the town, Briggs uses his bayonet to cut down two bamboos and fashion a stretcher for poor Bosun Stevenson. From then on, the rest of us take turns in carrying a corner each. He drifts in and out of consciousness, moaning quietly in the times he comes awake and can feel the pain.
A narrow track runs along the edge of the jungle. We are surrounded by thick vegetation and vines and dank, stagnant creek beds filled with mosquitos and leeches. Thick tree roots trip us up and we slide on fallen leaves made slippery by the damp ground. Both my knees are soon grazed and my cheek cut open by an overhanging prickle bush. The thorn is as sharp as a razor and I can feel blood trickling down my face from a deep scratch under my left eye. I try ignoring it as there is not much I can do about it at present, other than hold my sleeve against the wound to try to slow the bleeding. It sure hurts, though, worse than the time I kicked off my toenail.
Around midnight, we stop in the ruins of an ancient stone temple on the side of a hill that slopes down to the coast. Most of the roof is missing, replaced by the branches of a tree that have spread upwards and destroyed the timbers and tiles that were there originally. The floor of the temple is thick with creeper, but the four walls keep out the worst of the wind.
Mr Smith builds a fire using sticks and gunpowder that he gets by prying the lead from a cartridge in the guard’s rifle. The flames flare brightly and quickly turn into a crackling heat.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘Look at these.’ Along the way, he has somehow managed to spear several chooks with his bayonet. We roast them just like game birds, not even plucking them first. As soon as they are half-cooked, we rip them apart like men who have never seen food in their lives and devour the white meat in a few hungry bites.
‘Sam Chi never cooked a meal as good as this one,’ laughs Mr Cord, before taking another bite of his skinny drumstick.
We rest and leave again an hour later, still following the narrow track that runs along the coast. Luckily, the jungle here proves to be sparse for most of the rest of the journey, though travelling in the dark means we all end up scratched and cut and with our clothes torn.
Just before dawn, with the barest of light reflecting from the sea, I spy a steep valley ahead. The sound of running water, like a small waterfall, comes from below. We have walked far enough for it to be the right river, but we cannot be sure without the map we left in the dinghy. I am ahead of the others at the time, as those carrying Bosun Stevenson make slow progress. Mr Smith and Briggs with the rifles bring up the rear, just in case anyone is following us.
The riverbank looks too steep to descend, so I turn back towards the coast and edge my way along, careful not to trip and tumble down the slope. The sound of waves crashes louder than I expect, so I stop and try to guess how far away they are. I catch a quick glimpse of the red glow of a pipe about a hundred yards ahead.
Someone is on sentry duty, half-hidden behind a pile of rocks high on the cliff’s edge.
‘Dragon!’ I call out. ‘It’s me, Red, and the Captain.’ I am so relieved it never occurs to me until the words are coming out of my mouth, that it could just as easily be a Dutch sentry waiting for our return. Won’t I feel like a complete idiot when they start shooting at me?
Luckily, the familiar figure of Teuku appears against the sky.
‘It’s me. Don’t shoot!’ I call again, noticing him holding a rifle.
‘Red,’ he calls back, sounding almost happy. ‘We had mostly written you off as deaduns. What’s all the blood on your face? Are you wounded?’
‘Not me,’ I reply feeling the painful gash under my eye. ‘The Bosun. He’s hurt bad, really bad.’
Getting Bosun Stevenson’s stretcher down the track to the riverbank proves difficult without hurting him more. Several times he lets out a muffled cry, trying not to scream out loud. Four men from the ship scramble up the cliff to help. Within an hour, though, the men reach the water’s edge and carry him into the house.
Sam Chi waits with the old table cleared and ready. On it is his special box of potions, salves and elixirs, and his canvas wrap of knives.
‘Now, what’ve them Dutchies been up to on your poor hide?’ Sam Chi looks him over and then takes a deep breath, sucking his teeth. ‘It doesn’t seem right. Bosun Stevenson, who never says a bad word about anyone, to be beaten and branded like an animal. And a man of God too. That’s just not right. The fellow who did this?’ he asks.
‘Oh, ’e paid for it, sure enough,’ replies Mr Smith, with an almost sinister smile. ‘’e was well rewarded for ’is evil efforts.’
Sam Chi smiles wickedly, understanding completely. ‘The wind’s not changed, but we need to be ready to leave here in case it does, so I had better get you looked after, eh, Bosun. We don’t want to have to leave you behind,’ he says.
Bosun Stevenson sighs. There is no danger at all of him being left behind, not in a million years.
I wonder what is in store for us, though. As soon as the Dutch forces discover Commander Vetter’s lifeless body in the warehouse and their prisoners missing, there is going to be a massive manhunt, of that I’m certain. I just wish the wind would change so we can get out of this enclosed cove as soon as possible.
ALL NORMAL
‘The wind’s still blowing onshore Captain, I might need some men to help me scout for food again,’ says Sam Chi, a few days later. ‘Some good succulent pork, I’m thinking, and a few chooks.’ He ladles out a big, sloppy lump of white goo. ‘Perhaps we should look inland? Away from the coast this time?’
‘This is a Muslim country. I don’t like your chances of finding any pigs,’ says the Captain.
‘Just as long as you don’t try and feed us them damn scorpions they eat, or them snails or big cockroaches. Disgusting,’ says Mr Cord.. And don’t bring back any of that stewed up black bean muck they eat out here, either. Give me good old cheddar any day. Even week-old horse meat. Anything but that.’
‘There’s always coconuts if all else fails. But fresh meat is always good. I’ve seen plenty of oysters on the rocks yonder too, and crabs,’ says Sam Chi. ‘So we won’t starve. And I’ve put out those lobster pots from the hut.’
‘Maybe you could find some of that rice wine we hear so much about. Remember all them firkins on our boat is filled with seawater,’ says Mr Cord, hopefully.
‘Who can forget?’ laughs the Captain. ‘But that has set me to thinking, Mr Smith. ‘We seem to have inherited a cargo of guns from Captain Sims, the late, lamented old canker, and we have a hold full of expensive firkins that need refilling. I’m thinking a trade. There’s a good old civil war going on hereabouts, and I’m sure the local rebels could use some straight-shooting Martini-Henrys.’
Mr Cord looks a little worried. He coughs.
‘Mr Cord, you have concerns? Pray, enlighten us.’
‘It’s them Dutch,’ he says, slowly. ‘They are going to be like bears with sore heads looking for us. First the frigate wrecked and then their Commandant killed. Wouldn’t we be safer just getting the hell out of these godforsaken waters and hightailing it for home?’
‘A lot of angry forces after us? Nothing much has changed from the usual state of affairs, then,’ laughs the Captain. ‘All normal. We chance our necks being stretched every single day.’
‘I am just saying,’ says Mr Cord, sheepishly.
‘You want me to come to your house with you when you tell Mrs Cord why we’ve returned home empty-handed?’ asks the Captain, a little sarcastically, but still good humoured. ‘Hold your hand while you do? I’ve seen Mrs Cord’s fearsome temper unleashed. It�
��s worse than yours. It’s worse than mine, come to that.’
Mr Cord sighs, imagining his reception at home. ‘No, you are right, let’s do it. Anything’d be better than the wrath of my bride, even Admiral Edmund Fremantle’s whole China Station fleet hot up our tails.’
‘We’re all agreed then?’ asks the Captain. Everyone murmurs or nods.
The Captain takes a piece of charcoal from the edge of the fireplace and draws a map on the table. It takes only a minute or so. In the centre, he writes Andaman Sea. Even the name sounds sinister. Right in the centre of the map looms Sumatra, with Aceh at the northern tip beside a worrying looking stain.
‘Now do any of you gentlemen know the coast up that way? Anything about where we can find these rebels? Someone must know, this war has been going on for nigh on a dozen years.’
‘I’m from the south. I’ve not been that far north,’ says Teuku.
Everyone else remains silent.
The sea in this monsoon season is notorious for massive storms. It is the graveyard of thousands of ships and countless seamen. I say a quick prayer to the overworked Saint Brendan the Navigator, patron saint of sailors and fishermen in peril on the sea, hoping that I am not destined soon to be one of them. I don’t think, however, that Saint Brendan’s hearing is all that good.
I have noticed previously that, other than the Bosun, none of the crew seem particularly religious, but they are all intensely superstitious. They call on all manner of saints, good luck charms and even heathen gods when a situation looks even slightly perilous. I wonder if we will soon need all the favours of Saint Brendan, even to face just the next day.
STORM AT SEA
The Captain must have been out early. He swings open the blue door of the old house and yells, ‘The holiday is over men. Off we go. The wind’s finally changed. We’ve no time to waste. Mr Cord, do you think you can steer us out of this cove as Bosun Stevenson is still indisposed?’
‘Ah, Captain. I had a good few years on the Hispaniola as helmsman, back in my day, and she was like an overgrown bathtub to steer. Handle that old scow, and you can handle anything.’
True to his word, using just the jibs and reefed mainsail until the Dragon is clear of the riverbanks, Mr Cord guides the Dragon out into the open sea, taking just a few minutes and using a bare minimum of movement on the helm. Once in the open sea, he points the bow northwards. Moments later, Rowdy hoists the mainsail. It flaps noisily for a few seconds but soon catches the wind and stretches taut.
It looks as if Saint Brendan has decided not to favour us on this next part of the voyage. We have only just sighted some low-lying volcanic rocks washed with surf off our port bow when the breeze changes dramatically. Even the swarms of seabirds keep low as if they know what is ahead. The wide-open Andaman Sea leads into the endless and darkly terrifying and mysterious Bay of Bengal.
‘Captain!’ calls Mr Cord. ‘If you would be so …’ He points to the horizon dead ahead.
The Captain does not hesitate. ‘All hands!’ he yells.
Teuku and I stand at the starboard rail near the stern trying to keep out of the way, as the crew race to their positions. They seem quicker than usual.
Ominous clouds as dark and dismal as wet tar race across the heavens, billow skywards and threaten our way forward, or even our very existence, it suddenly seems. The wind grows cooler and stronger with every minute, and the swell opens wider and deeper, so the Dragon’s typical sleek motion gives way to lurching and shuddering. Waves crash against the bow and then splash over the deck in rivers of cold white foam. A sudden squall blows against my face.
Captain Bowen is struggling to pull on his coat. He looks about again, taking in the sea, the sails, and the crew. ‘You two!’ he calls to Teuku and me. ‘Get yourselves oilskins and get roped up. Tie yourselves on. Now!’
We do not need telling twice, and immediately search out our oiled coats and ropes to tether ourselves to the rail.
‘The wind is shifting dead ahead, Captain,’ says Mr Cord. ‘We need to get well clear of the coast as quick as we can. It’ll have to be nor-west tack, I’m afraid, away from where we want to head.’
I suppose we could turn and run for home with the wind behind us, but that does not seem to be an option.
The Captain just nods in agreement.
Mr Cord yells, ‘Ready to go about. In ten, get a move on, nine, and eight … About!’
I duck instinctively as the boom swings over, even though I know I am short enough for it to pass over my head. The jibs flap wildly before the forward hands haul them across and pull in the sheets. They trim the sails for the new tack.
‘Mr Smith, help Mr Cord on the wheel. Boy, you can fill in for him at the boom!’ yells the Captain.
Rowdy, one of the mainsail men, has the job of hauling on the sheets that ran through a series of pulleys to let the boom in and out, depending on the wind strength and direction. He has arms and shoulders to suit. The men all call him Rowdy, on account of he hardly ever says a thing. A surly cove with permanently half-closed eyelids and more scars on him than an old alley cat, he just grunts and shrugs when I move over to help him. There is nothing for me to do for the moment. I stand with my face turned away from the spray that continually splashes over the bow, feeling more than a little apprehensive at the upcoming storm, but also excited.
MR CORD
Rowdy holds the end of the sheet in his right hand with the rope looped around a belaying pin, ready to let it go. A responsible job, it needs quick reflexes. If he fails to release the sheet at the correct instant, the Dragon could easily rip its mast clean out, or even worse, capsize and sink. Often, hauling the sheet back in against a strong wind takes at least two men, and sometimes three, but Rowdy looks like he can handle it by himself, even in a blow like this one.
We are on a different tack within moments, and the Dragon quickly gathers speed away from the rocky island. As she does so, bigger waves loom up like dark spectres and just as frightening, and crash over the foredeck. Despite my oilskin, I am soaked to the skin.
Soon, the sea and the sky meld into one dark curtain of water. The rain flies in sideways, stinging my cheeks, and the roar of the wind makes it almost impossible to hear.
‘Boy,’ says Rowdy, his voice nearly carried away by the wind. ‘When the Captain calls, you hold this sheet. Watch them little ripples on the water about a hundred yards over there. See them change colour? Get darker? That means a bigger gust of wind a-coming. When it gets close, you get ready to let out the sail. Not too much, just enough so we don’t snap the stick, or go and turn turtle.’ It is the most I have heard him say in all my time on board.
About five minutes later, the Captain gives the call. ‘Reef the main!’ he yells. ‘One-third.’
I take hold of the rough, thick sheet as Rowdy passes it to me. I brace myself. As I do so, he and two other men scuttle up the ratlines to unhitch a tangled sheet to haul down some of the canvas.
‘Ease it out a little, boy!’ calls the Captain.
I lift the sheet from the cleat to loosen it and cry out in shock at the sudden force. Under the wrench of the wind, about a foot of rough manila rope rips clean through my clenched hand. It tears the skin from my fingers before I manage to jam the rope back around the belaying pin. Stinging pain rushes up my arm. Mr Smith looks at me and winks, but he does not say anything. If I cry like a baby, it will not be obvious because of all the water surging across the deck and splashing over me.
We beat against the wind for four endless hours, the boat tossing about like a cork. Time after time, the bow of the Dragon rises on a wave. It teeters on the very edge as if it is about to topple head first straight to the bottom, then slides back and crashes into another wave, jarring every timber in her hull.
Mr Smith and Mr Cord fight hard against the wheel, all the time trying to prevent the boat from broaching or floundering and sinking, until exhaustion and the howling rain have sapped their strength.
Eventually, the Capta
in notices my hand. It will not stop bleeding.
‘Get below, boy, and see the cook. Get that bandaged before you bleed all out.’
At the top of the steps that lead below to the galley, I struggle to untie the rope around my waist with my good hand.
Sam Chi is the only person on board with nothing to do. Normally, he is flat out preparing and cooking all the meals for a dozen hands, but with the storm tossing the boat about, his stove has been extinguished. He cannot even make a pot of tea, though the men are in desperate need.
Sam Chi immediately sees the blood on my clothes and guesses why I have been sent below. He pulls a face of sympathy and smiles at me. ‘Patched up a few of these in my time, I have. Stings like a good’n, I’m betting.’
‘Worse,’ I grimace. In spite of the pain, I am glad to be out of the howling wind and rain for a few minutes while he searches about for the medicine box. With the boat pitching about so much, below decks looks like a lunatic has run amuck.
Eventually, the cook finds a bottle of vinegar. He pulls the cork from the bottle with his teeth. ‘You think it hurts now? Wait until I wash it with this.’
I nearly die there and then. Sting? It would have been less painful if he had chopped my hand off at the wrist. I close my eyes tight, bite my lip and turn my head away so Sam Chi cannot see my tears. I nearly choke as sudden sickness overwhelms me. I try to stifle a sob, but it still comes out.
‘I warned you,’ laughs Sam Chi, this time unsympathetically as he bandages my wound.
I gird my loins, climb back up the steps, and reluctantly poke my head out again into the elements. The sky has grown even darker, and I am sure the waves are larger though that can’t be possible as they were already massive beyond measure.
‘Tie yourself on again, boy!’ shouts the Captain from beside the binnacle, his voice barely heard over the roar, as another wall of water surges across the deck.
Mr Cord, who has been working the helm, suddenly loses his footing. His feet shoot out from under him, and, with a surprised cry, he scoots down the length of the deck on his back as if he is sliding down a wave. The loop in his life-line is not tight, and as it reaches its length, he jolts to a stop. The loop jerks up under his ribs, like a noose around a convict’s neck as he falls through a gallows. A sharp, double crack sounds as at least two of Mr Cord’s ribs break.
The Smuggler's Curse Page 9
