The Smuggler's Curse (22 page)

Mr Turner suddenly seems to lose interest in haggling, and does the deal there and then, with a handshake and, of course, no paperwork at all. ‘And to think,' he says. ‘Instead of us coming all the way to Fremantle we could have done this in my drawing room at Kalgan Creek.'

‘Indeed. I'd have rather made that journey. And paid my respects to Caroline in person. Still, shall we say delivery on the first of the month, depending on weather conditions?' asks the Captain, as the two men stand.

Mr Turner agrees.

‘You may contact me,' says Joshua Kimberly. ‘For any arrangements you may need. There is the new telegraph, Perth to Albany line, to send messages. The wonders of
the modern age, eh? Your good health, sir.'

‘And yours, gentlemen.'

They nod then turn and stride to the door, ignoring everyone about them in the room.

Something is bothering me. I have been sitting with the Captain all day and the only message delivered to him was the one from Mr Turner. ‘Have you really had a note from the Governor's son?' I ask.

‘Not yet,' grins the Captain. ‘But it is not as if Simon can actually check, can he?'

‘I suppose not. It could be awkward,' I agree.

‘Awkward? How do you ask the Governor's son if he's receiving smuggled goods and cheating good Queen Victoria out of her taxes?'

‘Did we get a good price, sir? From Mr Turner?'

‘Let us just say, Red, that with your share, at this precise moment, you are the richest ship's boy in all the Australian colonies, and probably the world.'

I blink in total astonishment. ‘Rich? Will I still have to go to school?' I ask, hopefully.

‘Red, you can buy your own damn school if you wish. And you can be your own headmaster!'

‘That sounds like fun,' I laugh.

‘Anything else you want to spend your money on while we are here in Fremantle?'

‘I would like some new clothes,' I reply, looking down at my worn out breeches. ‘Maybe some long pants?' I do not add so that when I came back to Fremantle again I can impress Emma. Also, I think I would like to buy her a present, maybe something expensive and exotic from a faraway place.

‘Perhaps we might visit my tailor and let him measure you up before we head back to Broome.'

I like the sound of that. Brand new specially made clothes all of my own. Up until now, I have only ever worn cut down clothes made from ones accidentally left at the Curse.

‘We'll head to High Street tomorrow. It's not far.'

The street name sounded very familiar. ‘High Street?' I ask. ‘High Street, Fremantle? That's where Ma buys my books from. The bookseller sends them up to me. Shepherds of High Street. Can we go there, Captain? I'd like to see it. Mr Shepherd writes to me sometimes. I could meet him.'

‘I don't see why not,' he replies. ‘Which books do you want to buy?'

‘All of them. Do I have enough money for that?' I ask.

‘Red, you have enough to buy the whole shop — books, walls, roof and all.'

I like the sound of that too.

It has been a good few days in Fremantle, having new clothes and new boots just like the Captain's made, buying books from Mr Shepherd, as well as having fancy meals in hotels. On Friday night, a week later, the Captain hires a large skiff and crew to ferry us out ten miles or more to the far side of Garden Island where the Black Dragon is moored. It is waiting for us in Pig Trough Bay, at the seaward side of the island. Just as it grows dark, we set off and head westwards towards the island. As we get close to the bay, we can see the outline of the Dragon but no lights shine and the ship seems deserted.

‘Captain, why couldn't the Dragon meet us at the jetty at Fremantle?' I ask as the skiff reaches the heavier swell on the far western side of the island. I am feeling mighty
uncomfortable, and it is not just the increased rocking of the small boat.

‘The cargo, Red. Customs,' he replies, quietly. ‘We need to keep well out of their way, nosey wombats. One whiff of that duty-free whisky and every Customs Johnnie wanting to make a name for himself, and every robber who ever lived, would be all over us like a swarm of blowflies on a cowpat.'

The skiff pulls alongside the Dragon and I grab the ladder. I hear the Captain click the hammer on his Colt. He too must be suspicious. I scramble up the ladder and on board.

Standing by the rail and nervously looking about, I feel my heart quicken. The Dragon is eerily empty. The only sounds are a sheet slapping against the mast and the waves quietly splashing against the hull. Oh God, what has happened? Have the Customs officers captured all the crew? Or worse, killed them all? But would they? Suddenly, I hear a noise from the stern right by the helm. Against the sunset, I can make out the shape of someone holding a gun. Then a dozen more figures appear from the shadows, all pointing Martini-Henry rifle barrels directly at me.

‘Don't shoot, it's me, Red.' I say, pathetically.

‘Well,
Mister
Read, I 'ardly recognise you all dressed
up like a pox doctor's clerk. We wouldn't want to fill that flash new coat full of 'oles, would we?' laughs Mr Smith lowering his gun. ‘That'd be a waste of good cloth, that would.'

I am grateful that the colours of the sunset hide my red face.

‘Captain?' asks the Bosun.

‘Good news, men,' he says with a broad smile. ‘Very good news. I think I may have done the deal of this century, and maybe the next one as well. We head south.'

We sail south-west then south-east, tacking towards Cape Leeuwin, the south-western tip of the continent where the Indian and Southern Oceans meet, and where the wind the old timers call the Roaring Forties blows ships along at breakneck speeds, often, unfortunately, straight into icebergs.

Two days later we see the lighthouse, tall and as solid as the rocks on which it stands, at the tip of the land. We go about, trim the sails and turn south-east and then later in the day, due east, hitting the wild wind. The old timers were not wrong. The wind screams, threatening to rip out the masts, wreck the ship and kill us all.

‘All canvas!' yells Bosun Stevenson in spite of the typhoon-like wind. Once he has all the sails raised and
trimmed just as he wants, the Dragon's bow lifts and she fairly skips across the surface of the waves, falling into the troughs, and surging out again in a regular motion.

‘Look at that!' says Mr Smith, looking back at the white wake racing from the stern of the Dragon. ‘Faster than a steam train.'

I have only seen a steam train once, and it stood still puffing smoke and steam at Fremantle Station, so I have to take his word for it.

‘What's this bay called, Captain?' I ask as the crew finally lower the sails, stealing the Dragon's wind. The anchor chain rattles and the anchor splashes as it plunges to the ocean floor.

‘It doesn't have a name. It's not even on some charts, it is so well hidden. The early American whalers knew about it, though. There are a couple of old harpoons and blubber pots in the caves on the shore, and whale skeletons scattered about. Bones everywhere.' He smiles at me. ‘We could name it ourselves. What about Whalers' Cove?' He pauses for a moment, thinking. ‘Or how about Red's Cove? How would that suit?'

‘That would suit very well Captain. Red's Cove,' I repeat, thoughtfully.

The Captain smiles. ‘What say you, Bosun, Red's Cove?'

The Bosun just grunts.

‘You know,' continues the Captain. ‘There is Red Bluff way up the coast. And we sailed past Redgate yesterday. I should have pointed it out. The coastal steamer Georgette is sunk just off the beach there. It sprung a leak and was beached in a storm not half as bad as the ones we've been though just on this voyage.'

We carry the whisky boxes up from the hold and lower them down into the dinghy, before ferrying them ashore to a shallow cave in the cliff. We have to wait for the right tide, and it takes trip after trip in the small boat. The slim sandy beach against the cliff where we need to land the cargo can only be reached at low tide, as it is underwater for half a day. Even then, guiding the dinghy between the rocks takes a lot of skill, but Bosun Stevenson manoeuvres the dinghy so it lands in much the same spot each time no matter how much the sea swells and surges.

Then we wait. And wait. The weather is miserable. The wind is unrelenting and the rain comes in sheets. I have never been so cold in all my life.

Finally, on the third day, just on sunset, Briggs calls to the Captain.

A big man wearing a black skipper's hat has appeared through the rain, stepping from a gap in the rocks at the cliff base and onto the narrow beach. A group of men leading a train of donkeys quickly appear behind him.

The Captain strides forward with his hand out, a broad smile on his face. ‘Baxter, you old reprobate. You got my telegram then?'

‘What I could understand of it,' he answers. ‘Some sort of code. It took ages to figure out.'

‘Well, I couldn't very well announce my plans to the telegraphist could I? He would have been up and across the road to the constables before the machine stopped dotting and dashing,' laughs the Captain.

‘No, I suppose not,' Baxter answers. ‘You made good time then, Bowen?'

‘The winds down this way are astonishing,' says the Captain. ‘A bathtub would make record time.'

He isn't joking. The winds on the south coast never let up, blowing in the mornings from inland and then cold from the south-west, straight off Antarctica, every afternoon, every day.

We load the train of donkeys with the boxes, four crates lashed to each side. At least all the work warms me up a little. As the last one is tied on, and we are about to head
out and away from the cave and through the cutting in the rock, I catch the Captain's eye.

‘Captain?' I ask. ‘Where are we headed?'

‘Albany,' he answers.

‘But we're nowhere near Albany. I've seen the chart. It's miles away.'

‘Think about it, Red,' he replies. ‘We can't very well sail into Albany harbour with a cargo load of illegal whisky, can we? The authorities would be all over us like a medieval plague. In this cove, the Dragon is well protected and hidden from passing ships and there is not much directly inland from here. It's a bit of a trek along the coast, but it'll be worth it. Believe me, it'll be well worth it.'

We head through the rocks in single file and onto a slippery pathway that rises steeply upwards and out on to the very edge of the cliff.

Even if he had tried for a whole year, the Captain could not have picked a better night than this wretched one for avoiding the Customs officers, or anyone at all, come to that. I am sure no one else would have been out on the edge of this slippery cliff in such horrendous weather, for all the gold in Bendigo.

Lightning flashes directly overhead and the cracks of thunder shake our souls to the very core. Freezing rain lashes sideways, threatening to blow us down onto the
jagged rocks below. In the bright white flashes, we can glimpse enormous white waves relentlessly pounding the cliffs, the roar of the water making it almost impossible to be heard.

The track is far too close to the edge for my liking. One wrong step will be rewarded with nothing but thin air all the way to the maelstrom roaring below us.

I can just see the Captain up ahead waiting for me to catch up, his oilskin blowing away from his legs. His hat has been pulled down low over his ears. ‘Tread carefully, Red,' he shouts. ‘There's another creek washing over the path up ahead. It'll wash your feet from under you if you let it. And over the edge you'll go.'

‘I'm hanging on, Captain,' I call. I do not need telling twice as my survival instinct works very well.

‘And if the donkeys slip and start to fall, don't try to stop them. With their weight, they'll take you over the edge with them.'

That is fine with me. I had already decided that no snorting donkey is going to get me killed.

Ordinarily, the donkeys would be roped together end to end, and led by one man, but with such a valuable cargo, the Captain doesn't want one to go over the edge and drag the whole line over as well. Luckily, the donkeys seem to be more surefooted than the men.

Just as I am thinking that, another lightning flash lights up the sky. I can see the white skeletons of what can only have been several donkeys scattered on a rocky ledge. The ribs of a man picked clean by seabirds could just as easily have been among them.

The thunderclap that instantly follows the lightning is so sudden and so earsplitting that it takes me by surprise. I jerk involuntarily and lose my footing. My boots shoot out from under me in the slimy, oily mud and I slide straight towards the cliff's edge. I yell out in panic. There is nothing to grab hold of to stop me going right over. In a second, I will be off the path and plummetting down towards the skeletons on the ledge. I yell again in terror as my feet shoot out in midair. Oh God, I am right off the edge of the cliff. I'm falling.

‘Red! Red!' The Captain's voice is pure panic, the last sound I will ever hear.

The donkey's guide rope burns through my palm, just like the mainsail sheet during the typhoon. I plunge down. Down. And jerk to a halt, nearly ripping my arm from my shoulder.

‘Ahhh!'

The rope has a knot in the end stopping my slide. I grab the rope with both hands, my legs kicking wildly in the air, desperately trying to find a foothold that isn't
there. The rope whips back and forward as the braying donkey shakes it's head violently, trying desperately to get rid of me.

It would be so unfair to die now, in a stupid accident, having survived this far.

‘Red,' Captain Bowen yells again, but more calmly this time. ‘Hang on. I'll haul you up. Don't let go, whatever you do.'