The Smuggler's Curse (16 page)

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 always 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.

‘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 patrol 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.

‘This it then?' says Mr Smith, as the cart passes through the gate and stops.

‘It appears to be their headquarters,' replies the Captain. ‘Major Collingwood tells me the Black Widow's husband was a fighter too, and her father, but the Dutch captured and killed them. Executed them on the spot. She took over as the resistance leader when that happened. Then she went looking for revenge. And boy, what revenge. She has been so successful men have flocked from all over the East Indies to follow her. All these years later, she is still seeking revenge. And a free country of course. I've heard the war is bleeding Holland dry. They've sent ten thousand troops so far already to quell the rebellion, but all that does is drive more and more Sumatrans to join her band. Fighters from Borneo and Malaya and Java
have joined the fight as well.'

Several men, looking more like fishermen than soldiers, dressed in worn and dirty clothes, peer at us. Others wear sleeveless leather waistcoats with just a strip of coloured cloth around their hips. These fierce-looking warriors have feathered headdresses and carry black blowpipes as long as a man. They stand waiting by the steps of a large warehouse staring sullenly at us. A couple of the men look edgy, clutching their weapons tightly as their eyes dart in all directions.

A woman stands in the courtyard, erect and confident. She has thick reading spectacles and her hair in a bun held together with two chopsticks, and, surprisingly, she is dressed in men's clothing, I have never seen a woman wearing trousers before so I am a little bit shocked. Somehow, that she also has a pistol on her waist, two bandoliers of ammunition over her shoulders and a wicked-looking recong tucked in her belt does not trouble me. Her hand rests on the handle and she gives me the impression the dagger could be out of its scabbard in a split second and buried in an enemy's chest. Or mine.

She nods in greeting and in accented English says, ‘Greetings, Captain Bowen, we've been expecting you. Welcome, and may Allah be with you.'

‘Ma'am,' says the Captain, bowing from the waist.

‘Ma'am. Yes, Ma'am. Or you could call me what my men do behind my back — Black Widow,' she adds.

‘If that is what you would prefer, Ma'am,' he replies, flashing his most charming smile. ‘By coincidence, my men call me
Black
Bowen.'

The Black Widow smiles in return and bows her head, but I can see in her eyes, dark and as cold as the Captain's, little warmth. She has the same distant sadness in them that Teuku does a lot of the time. For once, I cannot imagine the Captain's charm working.

‘Before we begin discussions,' she says. ‘I invite your men inside for refreshment. You must be tired and thirsty after the journey.'

I feel mightily relieved, and thankful, as my mouth is as dry as the floor of cocky's cage. I go to step down from the cart, stopping to grab the rifle.

‘No sign of any Dutch patrols, I hope?' she says, watching me sling my rifle over my shoulder.