The Smuggler's Curse

by Norman Jorgensen

  More houses line the road. Surprisingly, many are crowded together considering there is so much space about. Children stand in their doorways and stare out at the coach as it thunders past. Occasionally, it scatters chooks pecking in the road and scares dogs, which then come running after the coach, barking loudly.

  Fremantle, when we arrive late in the afternoon, is nothing like I expected at all. As we reach the bridge over the Swan River, I see off to the left a large tanning factory at the water’s edge. It smells bad, really bad. Even the cesspit at Mr Tosser’s, the butcher near our hotel, smells sweet compared to this horrible, foul pesthole, and Mr Tosser is a famous stinker. We often say the vile smell of his cesspit is enough to kill seagulls in flight.

  Miss Boston and Miss Barnett both take handkerchiefs dipped in scent and hold them to their noses, as the coach rumbles its way slowly through the mass of coach and wagon traffic and people crowding the streets. From the look on Miss Boston’s face, I do not think the scent works all that well.

  ‘I fear the odour gets worse every year,’ she announces, shaking her head in disapproval.

  ‘Indeed,’ replies the Captain, being polite, but not continuing the conversation.

  I try holding my nose, but it does no good, and I nearly pass out from lack of air. I wonder how the locals can live with it.

  Small boats ferry passengers upriver towards Perth. Cargo ships are moored against a long, wide jetty, with scores of masts and rigging lost against the buildings and a steep limestone hill. A small steamship spews out thick black smoke from its stack. Just as well the Dragon crew are not here with us, I decide. They all hate steamers. There are even more of the horrible iron ships anchored offshore between the mainland and an island.

  The smell soon fades, but the noises of the street grow louder. It could have woken the Devil himself from the very depths of Hell. In all directions the sound of metal wheel hoops on the rough gravel streets rattle, screech and grind along.

  The coach rolls towards the central part of town. High on the hill overlooking the town the infamous Fremantle Prison, looking more like a castle from Ivanhoe, looms like a spectre. On the street below the hill, canvas-covered stalls laden with vegetables, fish hanging by their tails and dead rabbits, and carts with clothing, pots, knives and wicker brooms line the street into the town centre. Stall keepers all yell hoarsely as they try to flog their wares.

  The coach makes its way along, the horses trotting quickly. The driver yells and people on foot leap out of the way as he is clearly not stopping for anyone who doesn’t move. Ten minutes later, he wheels the horse team away from the outskirts and directly into the town.

  A huge town hall and rows of neat shops line a dead straight street leading to an octagonal sandstone building high on a hill near the water’s edge. Flags and a black time-ball waiting for the one o’clock cannon are attached to a ship’s mast in its courtyard. Further on, massive brick wool warehouses, magnificent hotels and really grand buildings line every other street.

  I notice a surprising number of beggars slumped miserably in doorways, staring blankly or pleadingly at us as we pass by. In a vacant block between two warehouses, a team of prisoners dressed in drab prison clothes is cutting limestone building blocks without enthusiasm. Further on, by a circular horse trough, a gang of boys is fighting. One has landed in the water, ending the fight with wild laughter.

  Three worn-out looking women displaying their legs shout at us as we pass by. Miss Boston and Miss Barnett look particularly shocked and turn their faces away from the window.

  The sun is fading, but it seems later than it is as the smoke-filled air from countless chimneys and fires darkens the sky.

  Can this really be the Fremantle people have talked so enthusiastically about? I am disappointed, after all the stories I have heard. I had imagined it to be a glittering, wonderful city full of rich and attractive people, but now as far as I can see from the coach window, the place is just a bigger, smellier version of Broome. Where are all the attractive people, especially the pretty girls?

  ‘Welcome to Fremantle, Red. The most wonderful city on earth.’

  ‘Sir?’ I ask, screwing my face up in disbelief.

  ‘As Dr Johnson might have said, a man who is tired of Fremantle is tired of life,’ replies the Captain.

  ‘Are we talking about the same Fremantle?’ I ask, incredulously. ‘Is this Dr Johnson blind and deaf, or just a complete idiot?’

  The Captain laughs, just as the coach slows, turns into a narrow street and begins wheeling through open gates in a high wall and into a large courtyard. ‘The famous doctor had obviously never been here, of course. No, he was actually talking about London.’

  I look out the window. One day, when I am older, I plan to travel to London. I sure hope it is more glittering than what I can see outside.

  ‘The Esplanade Hotel,’ he announces as we halt.

  I look about, this time more impressed. The hotel is enormous and modern.

  ‘Here we must part. Miss Boston, Miss Barnett, I bid you farewell,’ says the Captain, bowing his head as he helps the two women down the coach steps.

  The ladies make their way across the yard to a smart looking carriage with a black-coated coach driver. Miss Boston turns and looks back somewhat wistfully, before being whisked away.

  Loud noises suddenly came from the hotel as the back door opens and a man stumbles out, obviously on his way to the cesspit.

  ‘The way he’s reeling about he’ll be lucky not to fall right in,’ laughs the Captain.

  ‘That wouldn’t be a very dignified way to die either would it, Captain?’ I too laugh at the terrible thought of it. Can you imagine? Falling head first into a foul cesspit. And judging by the smell coming from the Esplanade’s cesspit near the far wall, it would have to be the size of a billabong.

  ‘That’s the door we want,’ he adds, pointing to where the man just came from.

  THE ESPLANADE

  The hotel is crowded to bursting and with a louder racket than Ma’s hotel at flinging-out time on a Saturday night. I almost have to shout to be heard over the noise.

  Although the hotel looks new, above our heads solid beams blackened with smoke make the ceiling seem low. A long bar laden with firkins and jugs fills one wall. Every one of the polished jarrah benches in the congested room overflows with men drinking and laughing. Just outside the front door, a park surrounded by a white picket fence leads to a beach of white sand and the nearby sea. More warehouses and boatyards line the shore.

  The Captain looks about in the dim light of the smoke-filled room and nods to several people he recognises, before resting his hand on my shoulder. ‘If there are no beds available, you might have to bunk in with the landlady’s daughter. A comely lass she is too. Right about your age.’

  The landlady appears from out of the gloom. She is an attractive, well-rounded woman with a massive, barely covered bosom. I suddenly remember what the men on the Dragon had said about the women of Fremantle having no tops to their dresses. ‘The famous Captain James Bowen, as I live and breathe, at my humble establishment? My, we are honoured,’ she says with what seems to be genuine affection.

  Her humble establishment takes up a whole city block, making it the biggest and busiest building I have ever been in. It makes the Smuggler’s Curse look like an outhouse.

  ‘And who’s this then?’ she asks, grabbing both my cheeks like an auntie would and giving them a squeeze. I can feel myself blushing all the way down to my toes.

  ‘Nell Underwood, it is my pleasure to introduce young master Read, Red Read, my secretary and accountant, all rolled into one,’ announces the Captain, rather proudly, I think. ‘He’s one of my crew, and his mother owns a hotel up in Broome, my second favourite, after this one, of course. The Smuggler’s Curse.’

  ‘You’ve spoke of him in the past. The boy must have prospects then,’ she continues, laughing all the time. ‘How about we marry him off to my Emma? They’d make a lovely couple, don�
��t you think? Give him a few more years. What do you say, boy? That’s her over there, serving that table in the corner.’ She points to a dark-haired girl holding two glasses of beer and joking along with the men at the table. ‘Like the look of her?’

  Like the look of her? Emma is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my entire life. She has long dark hair, sparkling eyes, rosy cheeks and what Ma would call a shapely figure. I try not to stare, but I can’t take my eyes off her.

  ‘I told Red he might have to bunk in with Emma tonight, if there are no beds free,’ continues the Captain, with not even a slight grin on his face.

  I look at the Captain in horror. He can’t mean it, can he? I have hardly ever even talked with girls my own age. I wouldn’t even know what to say to a real girl, especially one so pretty. My mouth turns all dry.

  ‘If he does, he’ll be bunking in with me and my sharpest carving knife between them, until my Emma has been churched and blessed and has a ring on her finger.’ She laughs. ‘Unless he comes with no less than a thousand pounds a year, then that might be a different matter altogether,’ she continues, still enjoying my discomfort.

  ‘But … I’m only … I’m too young …’ I stammer like a lunatic.

  ‘Emma!’ shouts Mrs Underwood, her voice filling the room and echoing off the back wall. ‘Come and meet your new husband.’

  ‘Oh, Ma,’ shouts back Emma. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy? You marry him instead if he’s such a good catch.’

  One of the men at the table she has just served suddenly jumps to his feet. He pulls a knife from his belt and slams the point into the table. ‘I want to marry Emma!’ he yells, defiantly.

  ‘You’re already married, you drunken fool,’ laughs Emma, smacking him on the back of the head with her hand.

  The man bursts out laughing. ‘Tell ya’ what, boy, buy me a drink, and you can keep ’er. And you can have me wife ’n’ all as a bonus.’

  Emma looks me over. ‘Tell him I’ll marry him in the morning.’

  Not surprisingly after supper, I do not end up sleeping in Mrs Underwood’s bed inches away from the beautiful Emma. I sleep alone in a tiny box room above the kitchen. Fortunately, it is located beside a chimney, so I feel as warm as toast all night.

  I wake with the sun and wonder what time would be right to go back downstairs. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I bend down to pull on my shoes, noticing that most of my muscles ache from the previous day’s journey.

  After washing my face in the bowl on a small table, I creep down the stairs to the main room. All is quiet. Someone must be up, though, as I can smell the familiar aroma of boiling oats cooking above the stink of stale beer and spilt ale, and the whiff of overflowing cesspit outside by the courtyard wall. It smells just like home on a regular Sunday morning.

  The fireplace in the main room still has a few glowing coals, so I blow on them and start a small fire with kindling from the box beside the hearth.

  ‘You’ve done that more than once before.’

  I look up, startled. I had not heard her walk in. ‘Emma,’ I stumbled. ‘I, er …’

  ‘I thought you might like some porridge. And we have some right tasty cheese. The others won’t be up for ages yet.’ She brings a tray holding several bowls and sets it down on a nearby table.

  ‘My mam says you live at a hotel as well?’ she asks, cutting the end off a loaf of bread.

  ‘The Smuggler’s Curse,’ I reply. ‘Up in Broome. It’s small, measured to this place. There’s just me and my ma to run it, though I’ve been away with Captain Bowen of late. Adventuring,’ I add, to make myself sound more interesting.

  ‘Just like me,’ she says, smiling. ‘There’s only me and my mam.’

  ‘Your father died?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know. Mam has never said. Nor never mentioned him. He could have been the governor for all I know.’

  ‘Probably not him,’ I say, smiling. ‘According to all, he is as ugly as a box of pox and you are really pretty…’ I stop, suddenly remembering it is not a bunch of sailors I am talking to. ‘I mean, as ugly as …’

  She giggles, not seeming to notice my language.

  ‘You won’t tell?’ I ask.

  ‘Not unless he comes in here himself and pays me well. The governor, I mean. Then I might be tempted. Do you really think I’m pretty?’ she asks.

  I smile awkwardly, and feel myself blushing again, not knowing how to respond. I have not been in this situation before. ‘Your mam and the Captain seem pretty friendly,’ I say, eventually.

  ‘They always have been, ever since I can remember. He’s good to us, your Captain. Buys me presents and pretty things, he does, every time he comes down from Broome. Ribbons and the like. He brought me a lovely ivory comb once. All the way from China. Can you imagine, China? And a bolt of silk for Mam.’

  ‘He’s good to me as well,’ I reply. ‘Really good. And to the crew. None of them will have a bad word said against him, ever though he can be pretty hard.’ My mind flashes back over the recent weeks and the dreadful fate of several men who have crossed the Captain.

  ‘How long are you staying?’ asks Emma, changing the subject. She sounds as if she really cares.

  ‘I don’t know. A couple of days or so I suppose. Until our cargo is sold, probably. Maybe you could show me about Fremantle while we’re waiting?’ I ask, hopefully. Maybe I’ve just missed the glittering part of town.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she replies, smiling shyly. I am surprised as Emma doesn’t seem the least bit shy.

  ‘Would we need a chaperone, though?’ I ask. ‘Being as we’re …’

  ‘Only if we were courting,’ Emma answers, sounding slightly hopeful, I hope.

  ‘That should be fine then, seeing we’re not. Besides, I’m too young for …’

  ‘Too young for what, Red?’ The Captain stands in the doorway, his hands braced against the frame and looking little better than if he had just been trampled by a horse.

  ‘Courting, Captain.’

  ‘You are right about that, Red. Too young, and definitely too busy,’ he replies, amused. ‘You and me, we have plans. We need to make your fortune first before you can even think about courting.’

  I shrug and sigh quietly. Making me a fortune sounds like an excellent idea. A most admirable idea if ever I’ve heard one.

  THE STRANGER

  By mid-afternoon, the Esplanade has filled again. Forequarter, a huge man and the hotel tosser-outer, sits by the door, his eyes dart around the room watching like a hawk.

  Seconds after the tall clock in the corner chimes five, the whole room suddenly falls silent. I look about, wondering what has caused the change. Forequarter walks towards us, holding a visitor’s card in his large hand. At the door, a group of men wait, watching him. Two are in coach drivers’ coats, but it is obvious they have pistols under their clothes. Another is dressed in a suit, all washed, pressed and polished up like a lawyer and carrying a satchel. The fourth, his head high and aloof, is dressed in moleskins, with a dark green coat of the finest wool draped over his shoulders. I notice, too, he wears boots just like the ones I rescued from the dead Dutch officer, Vetter, tall, polished and very expensive.

  ‘Captain Bowen, sir,’ says Forequarter. ‘Sorry to be of a bother, sir, but a visitor would like to be joining you, with your permission, he says. Here’s his card. He’s a nob rights enough. A gentleman cocky from the looks of him. A proper nob’s nob from the bush I’d say.’

  The Captain takes the card, glances at it, smiles and nods. ‘Of course, Mr Forequarter. Can I ask you to escort him to our table?’

  I stand when the group approach, just like my mother has taught me to and wait for the Captain’s lead.

  The toff clasps the Captain’s open palm. ‘James,’ he says, warmly. ‘It’s been some time, cousin.’

  ‘Indeed, Simon, much to my regret. I hope you are well. And Caroline? She is well, too?’ the Captain replies.

  ‘She is, indeed, very well, and sh
e sends you her fondest personal regards and hopes you will be able to visit her next time you are near Kalgan Creek.’

  Kalgan Creek? Even I have heard of that. Kalgan Creek is a massive farm out of Albany, down south. It can only mean that this man is Simon Turner, the famous landowner and probably the richest man in the colony. He owns lots of the farmland on the south coast all the way inland for miles and miles, even more than a man can ride in one day. And he’s Captain Bowen’s cousin?

  The Captain indicates the spare chairs, and Simon Turner and the man in the suit, who turns out to be Joshua Kimberley, his farm manager, sit and lean forward so no one can overhear the conversation.

  The noise in the room gradually increases as the other men go back to their own business.

  The Captain introduces me as his secretary, and Mr Turner shakes my hand, the first time any of the farming elite has ever done such a thing. I sit there amazed, not believing the situation. Simon Turner? I would be less impressed if the Governor came in.

  ‘I’ve heard from my sources you’ve had several offers so far,’ says Mr Turner.

  ‘Yes, but I’ve been holding. Family obligations and all, Simon, and your well-known taste for only the finest. This, cousin, is the very finest Scotch Whisky ever made. Every bottle is worth more than its weight in gold. I can guarantee it on my mother’s grave.’

  ‘Your mother’s grave? James Bowen, you old villain, your mother stayed at Kalgan Creek only a month ago. And in fine and fair health she was too.’

  The Captain grins, the same smile that wins over most people.

  ‘I suspect the real reason you have been holding out,’ continues Mr Turner, ‘is that no one else in the colony has the capital for such a deal.’

  ‘Well, in general you would be right, Simon, though I have to admit I did receive a note of inquiry just this morning from the son of a certain individual of high rank, the highest in the colony. He is a gentleman who must remain nameless, of course …’