I notice planks missing from the jetty and the sun and seawater have buckled many more. The stumps of the jetty, rotten and encrusted with weeds and barnacles, look about to collapse. Unlike our new long jetty at home in Broome, this one has no fishing nets laid out for repair. Lobster pots are piled high with dried seaweed hanging from them. They don’t seem to have been used for some time. The whole area looks deserted.
‘Looks like the fishing season’s been bad this year,’ says Bosun Stevenson, quietly.
‘Or another misfortune has visited itself upon this village,’ replies the Captain.
Mr Smith looks towards the single street of deserted houses set back from the beach and taps the tips of his fingers together thoughtfully. ‘Could be pestilence. Though some ’uts ’ave been torched from the look of it. We ’ad rightly be a mite careful like.’
‘I sure hope it isn’t pestilence,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen that. Leprosy, I mean. Last year when we sailed down past the Shark Bay settlement to Geraldton. Infected every last man, woman and child. Not a living soul wasn’t covered in sores, and bits missing. Horrible. And the smell. Even the rats had left.’
Bosun Stevenson shakes his head solemnly. ‘Even the rats, eh?’
‘Well,’ continues the Captain. ‘We’ll stay moored here at the end of the jetty, arm ourselves to the teeth and wait until the evening and see if anyone comes out. We’ll soon know if these are pest houses or not.’
The way things have been going, I’ll be surprised if pestilence isn’t the least of our worries before we get home to Broome. If we ever do.
THE VILLAGE
We lie about in the heat, squinting against the blinding sunlight. I have never before felt as hot, even in Broome, and that is a notoriously hot town. Ten minutes in the sun and it fries the top of your head and roasts any bare skin like a Sunday dinner. One basting of oil and I could have been used as pork crackling. That thought reminds me we are tied up on Sumatra Island, home of fierce headhunters. Are they cannibals as well? I look back at the shore hoping not to see anyone, especially any locals armed with six-foot-long blowpipes.
The Captain orders a sail rigged up over the boom and stretched to the sides of the boat like a tent to provide some shade, but even so, heat reflects off the deck like a skillet.
‘Captain!’ calls Mr Smith later in the afternoon, pointing to the shore. A man, obviously important, as he is dressed in a dark silk jacket with a red coloured pattern across his chest, leads several other men, slowly and warily along the jetty towards our ship. All wear dyed cloth wrapped around their heads to form turbans with brightly coloured feathers sticking up from them.
‘Mr Smith,’ says the Captain quietly. ‘No chances. Up in the rigging with you. Briggs, you behind that pile of lobster pots.’
Mr Smith slings a rifle over his shoulder and scurries up the ratlines. Briggs, who has been sitting on the jetty dangling his feet over the edge, rolls away. The Captain tosses him a pistol. Several other members of the crew move behind cover.
The small group reaches us and the Captain stands to greet them. He steps across onto the jetty.
‘Permission, Capitan,’ says the leading man as he salutes ceremoniously.
‘Granted, sir,’ says the Captain, bowing courteously.
‘I see your flag. You are of the English?’ the man asks warily.
‘Yes, I’m proud to say we are, of the English, by way of Broome,’ replies the Captain.
‘I am the village chief,’ he says. ‘I am here to welcome you then.’ He bows deeply and continues, ‘Our poor island has a history of invaders, I am sad to say. Over the centuries, we have had Christians and Hindus, Portuguese and the British. Chinese, of course, and now,’ he pauses and winces. ‘And now for too many years, the hated Dutch.’
‘I understand they have not been … kind,’ replies the Captain.
‘Indeed, they have not,’ the chief replies. ‘However, I have the pleasure to welcome you to our village and invite you and your men to the celebrations on the sand of the shore of the sea, tonight. We will feast in honour of our ancestors, and a good season.’
‘Why, thank you, sir. That is a most unexpected pleasure. My men thank you, they are honoured by your kind invitation and would be delighted to attend,’ says the Captain. ‘And tell me, sir, will your missionary be attending? I see his church up on the hill there.’
‘The missionary believes a good season can be seen as a sign from his God,’ the chief says. ‘If his God can be bothered with such nonsense,’ he adds, sighing slightly. ‘Oh dear, I hope you will not let my little heresy pass to Father Francis when you meet him. He was a man of strong belief and a little humour. I believe his humour, and his faith, lessened when the Dutch colonel visited our village a year ago with his forces. The soldiers behaved … unwell, badly, if you understand of what I mean.’ He stops and looks back at his village, his gaze lingering on the burnt out ruins at the far end of the cove. The chief pauses. ‘Your men are in need of the spiritual guidance?’
‘No,’ says the Captain. ‘Well, quite possibly they are. Especially young Red here. I just need some advice on trade matters. We are also in need of provisions. We have been at sea for some time.’
‘Of course,’ replies the chief. ‘I will send my man out tomorrow, just as soon as he has recovered from the festivities. He is known to be too keen on the tuak.’
‘Aren’t we all,’ laughs the Captain. ‘Until, tonight, sir.’
That evening the crew put on fresh shirts, and some of the men have a shave for the first time in days. As a group, we walk along the jetty to the shore where the festivities have started beneath some palm trees on the sand.
Red lanterns flare, several men play music on drum-like instruments and a big bonfire lights up the sand and reflects off the water in the bay. The breeze has turned balmy and made the evening much more pleasant than the oven-like day. On the fire, a goat is slowly roasting on a spit and smells delicious, and on tables further back, food is spread out on banana leaves.
People of all ages, from excited small children to wizened old grandmothers sit in a big circle watching, many laughing. Young women dance barefoot around the fire, skipping in time to the music while an ancient woman, much older than everyone else, glares disapprovingly at them and even more so at us. There do not seem to be many men in the crowd, which may explain what the leader meant when he said the Dutch had behaved “unwell”. Had they killed the village men? Is that why the fishing fleet sits unused and the jetty in such a poor state of repair?
The village chief comes to welcome us, his face smiling. ‘Capitan, we are honoured. Sit! Sit!’ he says, pointing to drift logs dragged up the beach into a circle surrounding the enormous bonfire. Flames leap high and light everyone’s faces.
As we sit, several women arrive with mugs of dark red liquid with fruit floating in them.
‘Firewater. Drink!’ he commands. ‘One legacy of the Portuguese. There is plenty.’
Who am I to refuse? It would be bad manners.
A couple of hours later, I am tired and bloated from too much food and firewater. The heat from the bonfire and the dancing have worn me out, so I slip down onto the sand and lean against a log, half-dozing I suppose. I should not have been drinking the firewater, but it is safer than fresh water.
Mr Smith comes and sits on the sand beside me and startles me. ‘I been watching youse, Red,’ he says. ‘Youse can’t keep your eyes offa’ that little sultana in the red headscarf.’
‘The pretty girl? She’s been looking at me as well. She smiled, sort of. Do you think she might like me?’ I ask.
‘Some advice, boy. I’se been to these sorts of places before, and believe you me, you can’t go anywhere near ’er. Even think about it and youse’ll be in more strife than Sam Chi. Think them pirates was bad? They’se nothing to a Straits granny after your ’ide. It don’t bear thinkin’ about. Have you seen them knives everyone ’ereabouts carries?’
‘Well, there is alway
s living dangerously,’ I reply, cheekily. Not that I was seriously considering even talking to her. What could I say anyway? I don’t speak a word of Sumatran. And besides, I had seen the size of the knives everyone carries.
‘Never struck me as bein’ worth it, foreign lassies,’ he says. ‘Still, boy, if youse thinks it is …’ He laughs at my expression.
I awake with the heat of the sun on my back, and a sudden pain in my side as Mr Smith gives me a light kick to the ribs. I am face-down on the sand, my mouth as dry as dirt, my head feeling like I have done fifty rounds in a bare-knuckle prize-fight.
‘Red, we gotta keep guard. There’re Dutch patrols about, accordin’ to the chief, maybe. The Cap’n wants us on first. This end of the jetty. Awake.’ He holds the barrel of a Martini-Henry and pushes it towards me. ‘Seein’ as you ’ave proved youse know what the proper end of this is.’
I use the barrel to push myself to my feet and look around. My head feels like a donkey has kicked it and then sat on it. If this is how drinking firewater makes you feel, I think I’d prefer typhoid.
I look about. A thin wisp of smoke, the remains of last night’s fire, rises but nothing else stirs, and even the waves have stopped lapping at the shore. It seems so peaceful that I wonder if the Chief and the Captain can have been mistaken about the Dutch being close.
MAJOR COLLINGWOOD
‘Captain!’ someone shouts from up in the crow’s nest, ‘Visitors.’ The Dragon is still tied to the jetty, but the Captain has posted a sentry in the crow’s nest to watch for patrols.
On the sandy path leading down the hill into the village, three riders appear. In the lead is a European sitting upright on a splendid white horse. Two Sumatrans ride behind him, their rifles upright and glinting.
‘Red,’ says the Captain. ‘There’s a Martini-Henry wrapped in brown paper in my cabin. If you would be so kind and fetch it.’
I scurry back along the jetty, not wanting to keep the Captain waiting.
‘Mr Smith, Briggs, please join us,’ he says as I return to the beach. ‘Our happy band, we precious few, it seems to be these days, have work to do.’
We wait for the horsemen to dismount. Their horses are dirty with the sweat and grime of a long, hard ride The officer kicks his left foot from its stirrup, swings his other leg over the horse’s neck and slides down to the ground. Evidently used to having servants, he hands the reins to Briggs, who takes hold of them, much to his own surprise from the look of his expression. The officer then arches his back and groans. He has obviously been in the saddle all day.
‘James Bowen,’ he says, extending his hand to the Captain. ‘Father Francis has passed on your message. I seem to remember we met once before. A ball? One of Captain Gregson’s spring extravaganzas in Broome?’
The Captain smiles, shaking his hand. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you again, Major Collingwood. I wasn’t expecting to see you in person, I must confess. I had anticipated perhaps one of your subordinates. Training the local militia must keep you well occupied in these troubled times.’
‘The least I could do is call on you myself,’ the Major smiles. ‘And I must confess, I am a little curious. You have become quite famous in these parts in recent weeks, Captain. I’ve been hearing reports from lots of sources.’
‘My reputation is far more tall stories than actual incidents, I’m afraid,’ replies the Captain. ‘The swashbuckling Major Collingwood, on the other hand, now there is a name that keeps getting mentioned in the newspapers back home. Society mothers will have their eligible daughters lined up when you return to Melbourne, mark my words.’
‘Me?’ Collingwood laughs. ‘I’m still just a mercenary fighting other people’s dirty wars for them. From what Father Francis tells me, you might have the means to help end the dirty little war here, or, at least, give the Resistance a fighting chance against the Dutch.’ The Major looks at the wrapped rifle by my side. ‘And this would be the means in question?’
I hand the heavy weapon forward.
Collingwood unwraps the rifle, strokes the polished walnut stock, smiles, and then pulls the lever, cocking the gun, before sighting down the barrel and pulling the trigger. It clicks harmlessly, but with a satisfying sound. ‘There are some self-appointed generals in the hills hereabouts who would give their eldest daughter to have these beauties,’ he says, tapping the stock admiringly. ‘There’s one particular one I can think of. A good looking wench she is too,’ he laughs. ‘Boy, fancy a swap?’
I look to the Captain. How can I answer such a question?
‘We are hoping for gold, not just for Red’s enjoyment,’ laughs the Captain.
‘I have an arrangement that I am confident you will not be able to refuse, Captain. Walk with me to give me a chance to stretch my sore, sorry legs and I’ll explain.’
The two men set off slowly along the sand at the water’s edge until they reach the pile of rocks at the far end of the cove. They sit on the rocks under the shade of a grove of palm trees near the burnt-out huts, smoking their pipes.
I lean against the hull of a fishing boat. I must have dozed off again but, luckily, Mr Smith gives me a kick and wakes me just as the officers return.
‘Tomorrow morning, it is then,’ says the Captain.
‘The guerrilla camp is about two hour’s ride inland,’ says the Major. ‘And she will be expecting you.’
‘She?’ A woman is leading the Resistance?’ asks the Captain, genuinely surprised.
‘Yes. A remarkable woman. Her real name is not generally used. It is whispered by those who fear her. With good reason. Those who don’t fear her, damn well should.’
‘She sounds formidable,’ says the Captain, looking impressed.
‘The Black Widow is what she is called by everybody far and wide, including the Dutch. She scares even me and I’ve met a few genuinely nasty warriors in my time, believe me. It is due to her that the Dutch invaders are beginning to regret their murderous behaviour. Colonel Kohl can’t handle her tactics, and his men can’t find her in the jungle. He flails about attacking the weak targets instead. Like villages, mosques, small plantations. The man is a complete maniac.’
I look up. That is exactly what happened to Teuku’s village.
‘When the Dutch least expect it,’ the Major continues, ‘The Black Widow strikes. Ambushes, booby-traps, food stores poisoned, silent and deadly blowpipe attacks in the night. Guards wake up with their throats cut, their heads missing or their gizzards spilled all over the ground. I wouldn’t want to be a Dutch soldier here in Sumatra for all of Captain Kidd’s gold. The odds of ending up as dead as that pirate are far too high.’
‘I look forward to meeting her,’ says the Captain.
‘I’ll send a wagon for you early, so you miss the worst of the heat,’ the Major replies. ‘And Captain, it is advisable to keep a good lookout. You need to stay out of the way of the Dutch patrols. Nasty bunch. They have become well known for not taking prisoners. I suspect you personally are being searched for all over the Straits after the beached frigate. And that butcher, Commandant Vetter — that wasn’t your handy work too, was it? No one is quite sure. The fishing fleet and half the town burnt down. It certainly has your stamp all over it.’
The Captain does not reply but extends his hand again. ‘I am obliged to you, sir. We will indeed heed your advice. If young Red here can manage to stay awake.’ Fortunately for me, he grins as he says it.
Just on dawn the next morning, Major Collingwood’s Sumatran riders return, together with a wagon pulled by two huge dark grey water buffaloes. Their rough horns curve back over their heads narrowing to vicious points, but the beasts seem dopey and placid. Their tails flick away the early morning insects, but they do little else.
Captain Bowen and Mr Smith sit beside the driver. I sit behind on the tray of the wagon, next to Teuku, and watch the countryside pass by as the buffaloes trudge up the hill and away from the jetty. Teuku is silent and distant, but I don’t feel like talking anyway. A Dutch patro
l could appear at any moment. I move the rifle closer to hand and check the load, for about the hundredth time.
As we reach the top of the ridge, the landscape ahead gradually changes to flat fields of pepper trees in endless neat rows. A few untidy farmers’ shacks built on stilts dot the landscape. An hour later, the road narrows to no more than a donkey track and begins to rise steeply into the mountains. Jungle, thick and suffocating, quickly surrounds us again, the canopy cutting out much of the light. Monkeys squawk and birds shrill and the constant clatter and buzz of insects fill the air. Once, a noise like something enormous and sinister close by sounds in the undergrowth.
‘What was that?’ I exclaim.
‘Maybe it is a tiger waiting to attack us,’ replies Teuku. ‘We have big man-eating tigers here in Sumatra. Monsters.’
‘I thought tigers came from Africa,’ I say, a bit confused.
Occasionally, a huge snake slithers across the track, and once I see a brilliant green one hanging from a branch overhead. Sweat pours from me and my shirt is drenched in the humidity. The constant smell of decaying vegetation fills my nostrils. I slap at the insects, but it is an endless task that seems to attract even more.
Another hour or so later, we come to a bend in the track. An armed guard steps out from the shadows. I look up, startled. He stares closely at us as if we are not entirely to be trusted. To him, I imagine we look just like the hated Dutchmen busy plundering his country and killing his countrymen. He spits out a wad of red betel nut juice and waves us on. Over the next mile, at least, half-a-dozen other guards watch us pass by. I have a feeling, though, that we have been watched for every inch of the whole journey.
Ahead, I catch a glimpse of grubby white buildings. The trees open to reveal an extensive but rundown Dutch colonial plantation house surrounded by a high wall that has seen better days. Moss and black mould stain the render and in many places, it has fallen off leaving bare bricks showing through. More guards walk on the top of the wall. They all have their guns trained on us.
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