Bosun Stevenson stands ready at the helm but faces back watching us, shielding the sun from his eyes with his palm. To his left, Mr Smith stands by the stern-chaser, the stern cannon’s trigger cord tight and ready to be yanked.
I am almost beside the ship, my lungs about to burst and a stitch in my side nearly crippling me. Only a few more paces. Only a few more breaths of air.
‘Red!’ yells the Captain again. I turn my head but keep on running.
He reaches down and his pulls his dagger from his boot and throws it forward towards me. ‘The cable!’
I reach up and catch the blade by the handle as it curves through the air, then bring the sharp edge down on the taut, thick mooring cable with all my might. The threads of manila part after three swings and the rope snaps. The Dragon groans and lurches forward, like a whippet after a rabbit, running beside the jetty and scraping a pylon.
‘Aboard, boy!’ the Captain yells.
Sam Chi reaches for me and seems to bundle me through the air at the same time. I land with a thump on my back. The Captain hauls Rowdy over the widening gap, and we’re away.
On the jetty, the Dutch soldiers are reloading their rifles and ramming bullets into the breeches ready to shoot us at close range.
‘Mr Smith!’ It is the Captain’s voice loud and commanding. ‘When you’re ready …’
The sharp roar of the Dragon’s stern-chaser is followed immediately by the blood-curdling cries of the soldiers suddenly torn apart by a hail of murderous grapeshot.
Mr Smith fires the second chaser gun just as a huge wave splashes over the stern, followed by the far off crash of a large cannon.
‘Those damn Dutchies have our measure,’ cries the Captain. ‘Get us out of here, Bosun. With extreme haste, if you would be so kind.’
The next splash erupts minutes later, but Bosun Stevenson has ordered the sails keenly trimmed and the helm adjusted, so the shot is further off.
‘Is that enough haste for you, Captain?’ asks Bosun Stevenson.
The Captain smiles in appreciation, and then nods towards the water as something catches his eye. The unmistakable fins of several sharks race towards the jetty attracted by the blood in the water.
Bosun Stevenson sets a course straight out to sea away from the coast on a broad reach, so we make good speed. And aren’t I glad about that. The further we sail from the land, the happier I become until I finally feel safe again for the first time in weeks.
THE LIGHTHOUSE
A couple of weeks later, we see our own west coast and soon after that, Spit Point, just south of Port Hedland, appears through haze way off on the horizon. As we draw closer, I notice a group of Aborigines about a dozen strong standing at the water’s edge watching us. They hold spears and do not wave when I do.
‘They’ll be suspicious,’ says the Captain. ‘Not surprising after the way they’ve been treated. If we look like we’re about to land, they’ll disappear, thinking we’re blackbirders or pearlers wanting to kidnap them as crew.’
The journey back has been mostly uneventful, with steady breezes, and although we occasionally see a far-off sail, the Captain just alters tack, and we keep well away. ‘Can’t have anyone taking pot shots at our precious cargo,’ the Captain declares. ‘Or worse, snooping below decks.’
That night I am just finishing up the accounts and refilling my inkwell when the Captain appears. I look up.
‘When we land, I need to find a buyer for our cargo. As my bookkeeper, you can accompany me. Help me keep the customers honest. Work the percentages. You’ll need your wits about you though. There are too many scoundrels in Fremantle all trying to part you from your money, or your lifeblood. And that’s just the police.’
‘Fremantle?’ I say excitedly. The furthest south I have ever been is Geraldton where Ma’s sister, Dolly, lives, but I have heard all about Fremantle from customers at the Curse. It is supposed to be a wild and wonderful place full of wickedness and debauchery, with shops and mansions and rich toffs with handsome carriages, and elegant ladies who wear dresses with hardly any tops to them.
‘When do we go, Captain?’ I ask, impatiently.
‘Bosun Stevenson should have us there in under a week. Now off to bed with you. The journey is not over yet.’
I’m sure I won’t be able to sleep with excitement but I must drop off because about midnight, the Bosun suddenly appears. ‘Red!’ he calls, ‘I need your eyes on deck. Now.’
The Captain is already at the side rail staring into the darkness. We are sailing south-west, not far off the coast, under reefed sails. The night is as dark as pitch, lit only by the stern lantern.
‘We’ve passed Ninety Mile Beach. The town of Cossack is just south. And there are shoals hereabouts,’ cautions the Bosun.
Briggs has the helm. ‘Captain, yonder light from the lighthouse. It’s gone out.’
‘So what’s that?’ asks the Captain, pointing towards the shore and a flickering light.
‘That started after the lighthouse went dark. It’s not right. I am thinking wreckers, I am Captain.’
‘Bosun?’ asks the Captain.
He nods in agreement. ‘Point Samson is not far. Killer rocks if ever I’ve seen any. Biggest ship’s graveyard I know of, Captain. Seems possible,’ replies Bosun Stevenson.
‘Call the crew. Every man jack. Change tack to seaward, Bosun. Get us away from here. Now!’ the Captain commands. ‘And douse the stern light.’
‘Sir.’ The Bosun turns and picks up his speaking tube. ‘Prepare to go about!’ He yells at the men rushing up the steps to the deck. In ten, nine …’
I have read about wreckers. They move warning lights to lure ships onto rocks so they can steal any cargo washed up on shore. They also frequently kill any unlucky survivors swept ashore as well, so there are no witnesses to their foul deeds. Wreckers are not common on our coast, but in Cornwall in England and on the southern shores of America it is a thriving business and it is said whole families join in the mayhem and murder.
‘Red, keep an eye on that light. Tell me if you see anything,’ the Captain says, handing me his telescope.
It is difficult keeping the glass in focus while the deck bobs about with the swell. Then I see something. Movement. I do not know how being as it is so dark. Perhaps the silhouette against the white water crashing on the shore makes it clear.
‘Captain,’ I call. ‘To the left of the light. Down at the water’s edge. People. And a donkey and I think there may be a cart or a wagon further back. I can’t see for sure.’ I hand back the telescope.
‘They must be expecting a good harvest this lovely night,’ says the Bosun. ‘What with wagons ready, eh, Captain?’
‘Well, those damn wreckers are going to get much more than they bargained for,’ he replies with a cold laugh. ‘I wanted to get the Dragon to Fremantle as soon as possible, but we can wait a little longer. Bosun Stevenson, can you find us an anchorage hereabouts, in this darkness?’
‘Aye, Captain, the dark is no problem. I have one in mind. Cape Lambert is a few miles beyond Cossack. It’s safe, facing north, so reasonably protected from the breakers.’
‘Splendid. I think the lighthouse keeper deserves a visit, don’t you? Hear what he has to say for himself.’
‘Captain, I’ll run the pox-ridden villain through, on behalf of all good seamen,’ says Bosun Stevenson.
‘That’d be too quick for a damned sinner like that,’ says Sam Chi. ‘How about we roast him alive on the beach. Give him a chance to think about all those he’s drowned while his skin turns to crackling.’
We stand on the hard sands of a small beach. The lighthouse looms high above us, perched almost precariously at the edge of a red cliff, the early morning light reflecting off its white-washed paint. A low-roofed keeper’s cottage stands nearby. On a wind-blown clothesline, dresses and shirts of all sizes whip in the breeze.
‘That looks like the only way,’ says Mr Smith, pointed upwards.
‘Of course,’ I mut
ter. Typical. No shortcuts. The land feels so hard under my feet and it takes me a while to stop swaying after all our time at sea.
A long pathway starts in the rocks back from the beach where we have just landed the dinghy. It seems to take forever to make our way up the hill, but eventually we stand, bent and puffed out, by the gate of the house. Climbing a steep hill is not like running up and down the ratlines.
The Captain does not bother knocking. He presses the latch on the front door and flings it open. It slams back against the wall with a crash. I jump at the noise but follow him as the others file in.
The lighthouse keeper sits at his kitchen table nursing an old pewter mug of steaming tea. He looks up, stunned. Instantly, he jumps to his feet, spilling his brew and knocking over his chair. His wife screams. I am not surprised. Other than the Captain, we look exactly like a gang of murdering pirates in our ragged sea clothes.
The Captain reaches the keeper in two strides, grabs the front of his shirt and hauls him forward so their faces are only inches apart. ‘Do you know who I am?’ snarls the Captain.
The keeper, dazed into silence, nods his head, his eyes wide with fear. Everybody who lives on the west coast knows of black-clad Captain Bowen.
‘Did they pay you to extinguish the lamp, or are you part of the wrecking gang?’ he demands. ‘Answer now or you die in front of your wife and children.’
I had not noticed the six small children huddled in the corner, staring at us in abject horror.
The keeper says nothing. His mouth opens like a caught fish, but no noise comes out. I suspect that terror has cost him the power of speech.
‘Mr Smith,’ the Captain continues. ‘Take this wretch outside and fling him over the cliff. He can learn what a wrecked seaman feels like first hand, being tossed against ragged rocks and drowning within sight of land.’ He throws the man away from him. ‘And God forgive you, you murderous swine,’ yells the Captain, as the man stumbles backwards and tumbles over his fallen chair. He lies like an upturned turtle.
‘No!’ cries the woman at the stove. ‘It is the magistrate. He done it. He is the one. Not my Josiah. I swear. I swear! He forced him on pain of death, he did. At the point of a gun.’
The Captain pulls out his blade from his boot and stands over Josiah, holding the point of it against the shaking man’s chest. ‘Is that true?’ he demands.
The keeper nods enthusiastically. ‘Yes, the magistrate.’
‘My Josiah, he is a good man,’ his wife cries. ‘The magistrate. He is the leader of the wreckers. Wicked he is, as wicked as a mortal sin. The Devil hisself is in that man. He acts to be on the side of the law, but he ain’t. He is greedy and cruel down to his toes. He’s worser than any crook.’
The Captain looks around the bare cottage. There is no evidence of plunder from ships. No marine furniture or ships’ barrels or exotic goods are visible. In fact, the lighthouse keeper’s cottage is almost as bare as a monk’s cell.
The Captain clears his throat and becomes civil and polite again. He replaces his dagger in his boot, turns to the wife, and bows slightly. ‘Madam, please forgive my appalling manners and this most unwarranted disturbance. I am truly sorry.’ He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a large gold coin, and places it on the kitchen table. ‘We shall disturb you no more and go and visit this magistrate of yours. Magistrate …?’
‘Wedgwood. Daniel Wedgwood. At the courthouse. He lives next door. The next house to it. Down thata way.’ She points in the opposite direction of the hill we have climbed only minutes before. ‘But you can’t tell him it was me what sent you. He’ll kill us all if he knows. He’s done that a’fore. Killed folk what went against him.’ The poor woman puts her fingers to her mouth in a nervous gesture. ‘Please no.’
The Captain tilts his head again as if the lighthouse keeper’s wife is a real lady. ‘Madam,’ he says. ‘I guarantee that whatever happens, you will be able to rest your head easy from now on. Andkan
Magistrate Wedgwood’s sinful wrecking days will have ended within the next hour.’
‘An’ not just ’is wrecking days, I’m a guessing,’ says Mr Smith, quietly. ‘All ’is sinful days.’
Outside, the Captain stands staring down the hill at the scattered houses and stone buildings with rusted iron roofs. About ten grubby boats, including several pearling luggers, float calmly in the bay, tied to the grey timbers of a jetty. I think the courthouse must be the solid building on the far side of the town, with the Magistrate’s house sandwiched between it and a church.
‘Mr Smith,’ calls the Captain. ‘If you please, I have a task for you.’
I do not hear what the task is as he gathers the gun crew close to him. But whatever the Captain has planned, they seem happy enough about it as they head down the track and back to the ship, leaving six of us to visit the magistrate.
THE MAGISTRATE
The magistrate’s house, made of the same red stone as the courthouse, is impressive, but then most government officials live in impressive houses, even in one-horse towns like Cossack. It is surrounded by a low stone wall, bordering the church graveyard on one side and the courthouse on the other.
‘Briggs, to the back door, if you would be so kind,’ says the Captain. ‘We don’t need any surprises.’
An old gardener is digging in the vegetable patch. He ignores us and keeps on with his work. Which is odd, considering we are half-a-dozen disreputable looking strangers, all well-armed with pistols, rifles and daggers. In fact, we must look just like the characters of Treasure Island cast ashore.
I am surprised when the front door opens before we get to it. The magistrate steps out of his doorway as we are filing through the gate. ‘Captain Bowen, I presume? Good morning, sir. Pray, why do I have the pleasure of greeting you this beautiful morning?’
He must have been a brave man coming outside to meet us like that. Me, I would have been out the back door and across the desert as fast as my legs could carry me. We look as fierce as Genghis’ gang of pirates in the Straits.
‘Good morning to you too, sir,’ replies the Captain. ‘I was wondering if you could enlighten me, Magistrate Wedgwood, as to what might have happened last night to cause your lighthouse to fail just when we needed it most?’ The Captain looks up at the hill that looms over the town. ‘The lighthouse flame went out but was replaced by a fire on the beach just north of here. It could have led my helmsman straight onto the reef.’
Even from where we stand outside the house we can see, off in the distance, the spine-chilling reef of dark, jagged rocks lashed by wild white surf, looking like the foaming mouth of a rabid dog. Two old ship’s masts, still with scraps of canvas flying from the spars, stick out above the boiling sea. The ribs of the ships remind me of skeletons stripped bare of flesh.
The magistrate’s smile slowly fades. The Captain says nothing else and looks unflinchingly into his face. The man has no real answer to give. No amount of denial or any degree of bluffing is going to work. The game is up and the magistrate knows it, just as he must know Captain Bowen’s reputation. He gulps and his eyes flit about, desperately searching for a way to escape.
‘What is the Captain going to do?’ I whisper.
‘Wait,’ hisses Sam Chi. ‘And watch.’
‘Bowen!’ someone behind us shouts. I turn to see a group of heavily armed men marching towards the house. There are about fifteen of them, so we are greatly outnumbered.
‘Bowen!’ repeats the oldest one, his voice angry, as they near the stone wall. ‘Who do you think you are, invading our town like a band of scurvy pirates?’
In a single move, the Captain pulls his knife from his boot, grabs the magistrate by the arm and swings him before him, the blade to his throat. ‘One step further and you lose your magistrate, you bunch of bloodthirsty wreckers,’ yells the Captain.
‘Send him to the Devil for all I care!’ yells back the leader.
One of the townsmen, a taller man at the side, lifts his pistol and fires. The shot is lo
ud but the bullet goes wide.
I instantly duck down and crawl up against the stone wall. I glance about, trying not to panic. The rest of the crew are down as well, but the Captain and magistrate still stand in the doorway until suddenly the Captain pushes the magistrate away, dives forward and rolls behind the wall too, leaving the lawman looking confused. Another of the men fires our way and then a hail of deadly bullets whizzes over our heads.
Briggs appears around the side of the house. He glances at the gaggle of angry men, lifts his rifle and fires, hardly aiming. A wrecker cries out and falls backwards, clutching at his chest.
Briggs crouches down, but instead of reloading his rifle he calls to me. ‘Red, your pistol!’
I toss him my Colt. He catches it one-handed, cocks back the hammer with his thumb and fires several times in quick succession.
Suddenly, a man wielding an old-fashioned sword jumps up onto the wall directly above me. As he leaps over my head, I thrust my knife up. The blade catches him on the ankle, and as he lands on the injured leg, it buckles under him. He topples over and falls heavily with a loud thump. Yelling in pain, he lies on his side, winded.
‘Retreat! Fall back!’ yells the Captain. ‘Into the graveyard.’
Most of the wreckers stand back, reloading their guns,
so we have a minute or so until they finish.
I scramble over the sidewall, keeping as low as I can, and run between the weathered gravestones and duck down in some long dry grass behind a solid looking slab of smooth granite.
The wreckers are swarming into the garden and heading our way when the main window of the magistrate’s house suddenly shatters and the front door flies from its hinges and cartwheels across the garden. A cannon roars massively from the sea. A wrecker yells in alarm as the solid door slams into him, knocking him to the ground. He lies still. Rocks explode in the house walls and dust fills the air. Before I can work out what has happened, more booms sound from across the water. The Black Dragon has arrived and the gun crew has fired all her cannons. Seconds later, another window shatters and the distinctive crack of the stern-chaser sounds. The gun crew is obviously in excellent reloading form as, within seconds, another salvo of shots tears into the magistrate’s house, leaving gaping holes. One more and the building will be blown into destruction.
The Smuggler's Curse Page 14
