The Smuggler's Curse (12 page)

‘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.

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.

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 Captain 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.

‘Ah!' he howls at the sudden pain. Gasping for breath, unable to move, he lies sprawled on his back, his face contorted. Another wave surges over him, and he gasps as the rope pulls even tighter around his ribs.

I am closest. ‘Mr Cord!' I yell in panic. I reach down and try pulling the rope free, but my bandaged hand makes it impossible. The manila rope is wet, the knot has strained too tight, and Mr Cord weighs too much for me to make any difference. I look up in frustration, mad at myself for being so hopeless. There is no one close to help.

‘Red!'

The Captain holds his knife up for me to see, the blade
between his fingers. I nod, understanding what he means. He throws it towards me. It hits the deck less than a foot from my right hand, the tip of the blade sticking into the wood planking like a dart into a bulls-eye. The bone handle still quivers with the force of the throw as I reach for it. I jerk it free and saw through the rope around Mr Cord's chest. The knife is so sharp that it takes only a few cuts.

Mr Cord groans at the sudden relief and tries lifting himself up onto his elbow, but the pain is obviously too extreme. He collapses back to the deck. I too felt like moaning as the bandage on my hand is now so soaked that the salt water stings the raw skin, even worse than the vinegar. It feels like I hold a hot coal in my palm.