The Smuggler's Curse

by Norman Jorgensen

  Mr Smith and Briggs have gone ahead to check out the area, but the Captain does not really expect any trouble while we are on the farm. They return within half an hour, puffed out and sweating from the walk back up the hill, even though a cool night breeze has sprung up.

  ‘Turner and ’is manager are waitin’,’ says Mr Smith when he catches his breath. ‘At that there shearin’ shed.’ He points at a corrugated iron building outlined against the skyline.

  Mr Turner and his farm manager, Joshua Kimberley, stand leaning against the sheep pen rail, smoking and discussing something quietly as they wait for us to reach them. They look up and watch as our line of donkeys draws closer.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ says the Captain, putting out his hand.

  ‘Captain. James. I trust you have had an uneventful journey?’ says Mr Turner.

  ‘Indeed, we have, Simon. But the Customs seem to be nowhere about. You haven’t heard anything of them?’ asks the Captain.

  ‘We can only hope they’re on a wild goose chase somewhere far away. Or met an end befitting the crooked old soaks that they are, God forgive me for my uncharitable thoughts,’ Mr Turner replies.

  While they talk, Mr Kimberley unlocks the large sliding door with a key from a big ring hooked to his belt and pushes it open. The wheels are well-oiled, and the door slides open quickly, despite its size. Inside, the shed is not a shearing shed at all but similar to Mr Baxter’s treasure trove, filled with boxes, barrels and chests. A row of drying sheep skins hang from a beam, as do several sides of beef and kangaroo.

  We quietly lead the donkeys into the shed and set about unloading the boxes. No one says much and the men seem quite subdued. I am about to untie the last of my bottles from the back of my donkey when the Captain calls me. I turn, still hanging onto the rope. Mr Turner and the Captain stand just inside the doorway, silhouetted against the evening light.

  ‘Red, can you spare me a moment of your valuable time?’ calls the Captain.

  ‘Simon,’ he says, as I step over to where they stand and tip my hat. ‘You may remember you met young Red, my secretary, at the Esplanade in Fremantle. Red Read. He’s Mary Read’s son from the Smuggler’s Curse up in Broome. The one I was telling you about.’

  ‘Mary Read’s boy? I can see the resemblance.’

  I nod, not knowing what to say.

  ‘My cousin here, your Captain, tells me you are going to make an excellent seaman. It must run in the blood. Seamanship, I mean.’ Mr Turner smiles at me, reaches forward, and pats me on the head like a favourite uncle might. ‘And how is your mother, boy?’

  ‘You know my mother, sir?’ I ask, even more surprised. How? I had not seen Mr Turner up in Broome in the Curse before.

  ‘In my younger days. When I was first in Broome, the place didn’t even have a name. Your Captain and I spent many a good hour sampling the delights of the Curse, didn’t we, what?’

  The Captain chuckles quietly.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not seemly these days for a man in my position, what with me being the local Justice of the Peace. Not that advisable. It looks bad in the newspapers. Gossip in the social pages. Ah, to be young again, eh, Bowen?’

  I gape open-mouthed, shocked. Magistrates and Justices of the Peace are the ones who lock up smugglers and often sentence them to long stretches with hard labour. I wonder what would have happened if we had been captured by the Customs on our way here today and were sent to court. Would the Captain’s cousin have had him jailed? Had all of us jailed?

  As I return to the unloading, I overhear Mr Turner murmur, ‘Are you sure he’s not yours? Look at those eyes, and the nose.’

  ‘I thought he was one of yours,’ laughs the Captain.

  I nearly stumble over in shock. Of course, it can’t be true. Can it? As the crew has grown to know me over the recent months, I have been teased more and more about how much I look like the Captain. But this? It would explain why Ma sent me away to be with the Captain. The story that I needed to be away from the Curse for a while does not really ring true. I can think of no real reason not to be home still trying to avoid helping her. Nothing has changed that needed me to be gone. My mind is reeling in confusion. I lean back against my donkey’s side and sigh.

  ‘We wearing you out, Red?’ calls the Captain. ‘Too long lazing on a Sumatran beach? Turned you into the idle landed elite like Simon here?’

  I turn and try to smile, knowing my face beams as red as my name. I also see Mr Smith look across at me and grin at my obvious discomfort. When he catches my eye, he winks conspiratorially before turning away to quieten the donkeys.

  BACK AT THE CURSE

  Ma sees me walking up the hill towards the Smuggler’s Curse long before I reach it. At first, she does not seem to recognise me as she turns away and keeps on sweeping the front step. Eventually, she looks up again, so I wave. Ma stops and stares for a moment, apparently not believing it could be me. Then she drops her broom, hitches up her skirt and rushes down the path towards me. Ma grabs me so hard and hugs me for so long I think I might suffocate.

  ‘Red! Red! I was getting so worried. You were only supposed to be away a few weeks, at the most. James … the Captain, promised me. Now look at you. All grown up and covered in muscles. I hardly know you. And your face. You’re the colour of my jarrah sideboard. What sort of mother doesn’t recognise her own son? And look how you’ve grown. You’re taller than me. And what is that scar on your cheek? How did you get that? Did you get in a fight?’

  ‘We’ve been to Singapore,’ I say, not being able to think of anything else for the moment. Telling Ma about pirates and typhoons and me very nearly getting bayoneted by a Dutch soldier is probably not a good idea at this stage. I can just imagine her reaction. It wouldn’t be good.

  ‘Singapore? That wicked place? Thank God you’re safe. Just wait until I get hold of Captain Bowen, taking my boy to a dreadful place like that. I’ll give him what for. Come inside and we’ll get the kettle on.

  ‘Teach you to sail did he? Navigate?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, using a sextant to take a midday sighting of the sun. And to read charts. And Bosun Stevenson taught me to handle the helm. Mr Rowdy taught me how to trim the sails. And Mr Smith, he taught me to shoot, just like Buffalo Bill. With a Colt.’

  ‘The girls will be pleased to have you back. They’ve missed you.’

  SCHOOL DAYS

  It is a slow afternoon in the Curse. Father Jameson sits at his usual table by the window, talking and laughing his head off with Sally and Meg. The two girls giggle at the priest’s stupid jokes and so-called witticisms, but nothing I overhear sounds funny enough to even smile at.

  The door swings open and Captain Bowen and Mr Smith stride in. Two old sailors propped on stools at the bar nod in recognition, and across the room, Julia, who is wiping down a table, smiles broadly.

  ‘Jameson, you old fraud,’ says the Captain.

  ‘Captain Bowen,’ he replies, emphasising Captain. ‘Is that any way to address a senior member of God’s holy church. Pray, show a modicum of respect for the office at least, if you please.’

  ‘I apologise, sir.’ The Captain smiles. ‘Jameson, you holy old fraud.’

  ‘Come an’ join us, Captain,’ laughs Meg.

  ‘Yes, please do,’ says the Father, apparently not too affronted by the remarks. ‘If you’ve finished insulting me, that is.’

  ‘Not necessarily. I can keep at it all day, listing your shortcomings.’

  ‘And I’ll pray for your sins, Captain,’ replies the Father

  ‘Well, that should keep you up all night,’ laughs the Captain.

  I notice Mr Smith stays back and quietly finds himself a stool at the bar. As usual, he is there to watch the Captain’s back.

  Without being asked, I fill two glasses with a decent shot of the Littlemills Whisky we brought home from Sumatra, push one across to Mr Smith, and carry the other to the Captain.

  ‘Ah, Red, there you are,’ he says, happily. ‘Just the man I’m wanti
ng to see. Come, join us, if you would be so kind.’

  I look back at Ma, but she nods.

  ‘Father,’ the Captain continues. ‘You know young Red here?’

  ‘I should do. I christened the whelp back when I first arrived in this town. I’d barely recognise him now, though.’

  ‘He is now a young man of independent means, and I’ve noticed he has the makings of a gentleman, not just a gentleman of the sea, and I’m making it my business to see that happens. What he needs now is a good school. To polish his manners and set him on the right paths. Introductions to the right families. A hefty dose of the arts and sciences. Ease his way into Perth Society.’

  The priest can see what is coming. ‘That is all fascinating, and I’m pleased for you Red, but Captain, why are you telling me this?’ asks Father Jameson.

  ‘I’ve heard the church has a brand new school down in Perth. On Saint George’s Terrace, I believe. Being acquainted with Bishop Gibney, as I know you are, you would have some influence there. You could arrange a place for Red,’ says the Captain.

  Father Jameson hesitates, trying to think what to say, I imagine. ‘Hmm, yes, indeed, Bishop Gibney is my immediate superior. We are friendly, as you say, but vacancies can be a problem.’

  Mr Smith, who can hear every word, rises from his stool and goes over to a table where several strangers sit talking quietly. He leans over and says something to them. Looking nervous, they all immediately push back their chairs, rise and hurriedly leave the room, the door swinging closed with a crash. Half-full glasses remain on the table.

  ‘You know Mr Smith, my gunner from the Black Dragon?’ asks the Captain. ‘A good man, he is too. You’ll know of his repute, even if …’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr Smith and I are acquainted,’ replies the priest. He suddenly seems a little more nervous.

  ‘How he has suffered recently. What he’s had to witness, the poor man.’ The Captain lets the silence linger. ‘You would have heard of that unfortunate magistrate at Cossack, south of here. Dreadful. A gang of pirates I’ve been told. Beheaded, so I heard. Shocking. Too awful to think about. One never knows what the future may hold. Don’t you agree, Father?’

  ‘You are so right Captain Bowen,’ says the priest, gulping. His eyes now as wide as a barn owl’s. ‘In fact, thinking about it, I do believe there may well be a vacancy coming up next term at Christian Brothers’ College.’

  The Captain slowly nods, satisfied.

  ‘And I’m sure we can forgo the fees in this instance, being as Red is such a fine young man,’ Father Jameson adds, nervously.

  ‘No, no need for that, Father. I’m willing to pay for his schooling, providing, of course, he gets the finest of everything and the very best treatment. As befits a young man of considerable means, you understand?’

  ‘Of course, dear Captain, of course.’ His face is quite pale.

  ‘And there’ll be none of the flogging I’ve heard your teachers are so keen on. They’re worse than the damn British Navy, I’ve been told,’ continues the Captain. ‘And that certainly is saying something. If I even hear so much as a whisper. If I see the faintest red mark on my, er, our boy …’

  ‘Heaven forbid,’ cries the priest, realising his life now depends on keeping the Captain sweet and saying exactly the right thing. One nod to Mr Smith and Father Jameson will be instantly meeting his holy boss at the Pearly Gates.

  ‘Shall we say the start of the middle term then?’ continues the Captain. ‘That should give my tailor enough time to make Red’s school uniforms.’

  School uniforms? I sigh a little at the thought. I sit there listening to the Captain map out my future, and in some ways the thought of it makes me happy. I like the idea of becoming a gentleman or even, eventually, a landowner like Simon Turner, but the idea of not continuing as a smuggler and owning my own schooner, the Red Dragon, and sailing it off into the sunset to exotic climes, saddens me even if I did spend much of my time on board the Dragon terrified out of my mind.

  ‘Don’t look so glum, Red,’ says the Captain. ‘School is not that bad.’

  ‘But the Black Dragon. Mr Smith and Bosun Stevenson and Teuku …?’ I stop, suddenly remembering Teuku is off fighting in the jungle, if he is even still alive. I sure hope so.

  ‘What, you think you won’t find them all in the Curse every holiday? You’ll still see plenty of them.’

  He is probably right, but school will be deadly dull. Nothing like riding on the deck of the Dragon, all sails set for a fresh breeze and whipping along at eighteen knots. Still, Emma is in Fremantle, not so very far from Perth. And I now have an income of more than a thousand pounds a year, like her mother said I needed to. Maybe I could get to know her a bit better. Maybe school won’t be all bad.

  ‘Well then, lad,’ the Captain says, standing up and slapping me on the shoulder. ‘That’s today’s commerce completed. A most satisfactory result, I must say.’

  He bows at Father Jameson, though not too deeply. ‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Father Jameson.’

  ‘I’m sure young Master Read will be very happy at the Christian Brothers’ College,’ replies the Father, still not sure that Mr Smith isn’t about to blow his head clean off his shoulders.

  ‘Of that, I’m certain,’ says the Captain, but as he turns his head, he winks at Mr Smith.

  Ma walks over from the bar to collect the half-empty glasses and to see why we are all smiling.

  ‘Red, it seems we have six weeks clear until the middle term starts. I’m thinking Shanghai. It’s a good night. Perfect for our gentlemen’s trade. We should just be in time for the late tide if we leave now.’

  I look back at Ma, to see her reaction.

  ‘But you’ve only just returned home,’ Ma protests. ‘James Bowen, if you think for one moment you are taking my boy away to sea again so soon, you have another think coming.’

  ‘But the Dragon just doesn’t sail right without him. Isn’t that so Mr Smith?’ says the Captain. ‘He keeps the crew amused. Besides, it will only be six weeks. At the most.’

  ‘You said that last time, and he was away for months,’ continues Ma. But she is already starting to smile. She never can resist the Captain’s charm. ‘And I’d still like to know how he came by that nasty scar on his face.’

  ‘While we’re at it, there’s something I’d like to know about the boy, too,’ the Captain says.

  Ma’s eyes narrow and she looks at him sharply.

  ‘Tell me, why did you name him Red?’

  Ma laughs. ‘The first sound he made after he was born was arhhh — just like a pirate. So I named him Red for Red Rackham, the most famous pirate of them all.’

  Outside, the faded sign reading ‘The Smuggler’s Curse’ swings back and forth and creaks loudly, battered by an ever-increasing breeze.

  ‘’ear that?’ says Mr Smith. ‘That’ll be a thirty-knot wind gettin’ up if I’m not mistook. She’s goin’ to be a quick passage, I’m a-thinkin’. A right speedy trip.’

  The Captain puts an arm around my shoulders in a fatherly way. ‘Once more down to the beach, dear friends. Once more.’

  ‘Captain?’ I ask, not quite sure to what he is referring.

  ‘Just misquoting a little Shakespeare,’ he replies, ‘As you might have noticed I tend to do from time to time.’

  I nod. Who could have missed it?

  ‘Ready to sail again, Red? Another spell at the ship’s wheel? A thirty knot howler. The Dragon can be a right witch in that wind. Are you up for it?’

  ‘Aye, aye Captain,’ I laugh.

  I am a son of the sea, sure enough. Seawater flows in my veins, more surely than red blood does. Of course I am up for it.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The ghost of Robert Louis Stevenson hovers over The Smuggler’s Curse; I thank you.

  Thanks also to the talented and hardworking staff at Fremantle Press, especially my publisher Cate Sutherland who hauls me back in when I go overboard; Trac
ey Gibbs, who designed a fabulous cover, and Claire Miller, who runs the publicity with such swashbuckling verve.

  I am grateful to Michael Gregg from the Maritime Museum of Western Australia for his invaluable maritime edit and ongoing interest. Richard Scott, John Gillespie, and Lena Perry read early drafts and encouraged me to continue. Allen Newton shared the research trip that ignited the story and remains my trusty sounding board.

  To my beloved, Jan Nicholls, children’s book lover and my most enthusiastic fan — I could not have written this one without you. I will always be grateful for your love and faith in me, and for your constant support, endless patience and sense of humour while my head was in colonial Australia and on storm-tossed tropical seas.

  Thank you all.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Norman Jorgensen was born in Broome, the eldest of four brothers, and has lived in several country towns since. At a young age he developed a love of books, especially historical novels like Treasure Island, and old movies. At age thirteen Norman learned to sail. These days he loves travelling and researching exotic places for his books.

  Norman writes award-winning picture books and novels for young readers including: The Last Viking and The Last Viking Returns (illustrated by James Foley), In Flanders Fields and The Call of the Osprey (illustrated by Brian Harrison-Lever), A Fine Mess, Another Fine Mess and Jack’s Island.

  First published in 2016 by

  FREMANTLE PRESS

  25 Quarry Street, Fremantle 6160

  Western Australia

  www.fremantlepress.com.au

  Copyright © Norman Jorgensen, 2016.

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.