The Smuggler's Curse (3 page)

He smiles at my efforts struggling to get out of the hammock. ‘I'm the gunner on this here scow,' he says, handing me a battered enamel mug.

I take a sip of the hot liquid and look at him gratefully. ‘I don't fit in here, Mr Smith. On the Black Dragon. Not
at all. Not one bit. The Captain hates me, and the men think I'm a raw fool. They look at me like something the cat dragged in. Worse, like something the cat did.'

‘Youse sticks with me, boy, and I'll watch ya back,' he says. ‘I started as ship's boy, back well a'fore you was born. On the Pandora, it were, a four-masted square-rigger out of Southampton, in England, when I was about your age, maybe a bit younger. Back before those damn smelly steam ships clogged up all the 'arbours. I know the ropes right enough. I'm still alive, and I'll stay that way. I'll try and learn ya' right.'

‘There's a lot to learn.'

‘Don't you worry none. The crew'll do alright by youse too, once they get to know youse. Youse'll see. They're not a bad lot. Not as 'ard as they pretend. We all 'ave to get along. The Cap'n demands it, 'e do. 'e don't hold with malingerers and lead swingers and sea lawyers. And 'e don't tolerate no bullies. 'e reckons 'e's the only one allowed to bully. 'e keeps on about us being a few, a 'appy few, we band of brothers — for whoever sheds 'is blood with me shall be my brother.'

I am not entirely sure what he means, but I nod as if I do. I have heard the expression before, somewhere, but I do not want to share any blood at all, even if it does make me a brother. There were many times in the past when I
wanted a brother, but not enough to give up any of my precious blood.

‘What about Markham? Teuku just told me about him and the others.'

‘That was just bad luck,' Mr Smith replies. ‘They walked into a bar carryin' their guns, not knowin' it was full of Dutch marines off duty, including a officer. The Dutch reckoned they was mercenaries fightin' with the rebels. Maybe spies. Nothin' we could do for 'em, though the Cap'n, he tried, 'e did. Nearly got 'isself topped 'e did, tryin'.' Mr Smith shrugs, ending the story, leaving me curious. He finishes his tea and swings into his hammock, effortlessly. It creaks once, and he seems to fall asleep instantly.

Over the next hour, half-a-dozen more men make their way noisily down the steps and eventually to the hammocks. They tease and poke fun at each other, and then spit, curse, burp and fart loudly for good measure. They completely ignore me.

In spite of Mr Smith's promise to look after me, I lie awake, still nervous, thinking about being shot or having my head chopped off, and wondering how likely it is to actually happen. With every passing minute, we draw further and further away from home and towards an unknown and probably deadly shore. And with every
second that goes by I am feeling queasier and queasier. I try taking deep breaths, but the seasickness will not go away. In fact, it gets worse. Any minute I'm going to chuck up again, bucket loads. It was embarrassing enough up on deck but in the cabin, it will be unforgivable and I definitely will be tossed overboard.

I feel absolutely dreadful, as bad as I ever have. Below decks is hot and uncomfortable and surprisingly noisy. The ship's timbers creak, men who will be on the late watch snore, splutter and fart, and several cry out alarmingly in their sleep. I have never slept in a hammock before, and the constant swaying makes me feel even sicker. I decide to go back up to the deck for some fresh air.

On deck, I lean against the port rail and feel the clean wind against my cheeks. I have just brought up my fill of vomit over the side, enough to feed a million fishes, when a loud shout comes from the watch up at the masthead.

‘Ship astern! Nor'-easterly course. Dead astern.'

‘You, boy. Fetch the Captain. Move yourself!' yells the Bosun.

‘What? Where?' I stammer in confusion, spitting out
the last of the vile taste from my mouth.

Bosun Stevenson lifts his massive arm and points to six stairs leading down to the stern cabin. ‘There, for God's sake! Now!'

‘Begging your pardon, Captain, sir,' I say when he swings open his cabin door. I peer past him. His walnut-lined cabin is enormous, taking up all the rear of the deck. A long wall of windows lines the stern and, at the centre, a dining table big enough for at least a dozen men has been set for two. Against one wall, a polished writing desk is covered in rolled maps, papers and journals, and, on the opposite wall, a wooden bunk with the bedclothes still waiting to be made up.

‘Spit it out, boy!'

‘A ship, sir, astern of us, sir.'

The Captain does not wait. Mounting the steps two at a time, he hurries onto the deck and reaches for his telescope, and quickly focuses it.

Bosun Stevenson already has his glass trained on the unknown ship to our stern.

‘What do you think?' asks the Captain. ‘She's a steam cutter sure enough. Look at that.' Thick black smoke spews from its funnel. ‘Customs?'

‘Could be a Navy dispatch cutter,' says the Bosun, sounding vaguely hopeful.

‘About as much chance of that as my Aunt Bessie's three-legged dog winning the Melbourne Cup, I'll wager,' continues the Captain. ‘Look at the state she's in. Only the poxy Customs would let a vessel go to rack and ruin like that.' He shakes his head slightly in disgust. ‘What a disgrace. Sailors of the Queen's Navy were taught better. Isn't that so, Bosun?'

‘Indeed, we were, Captain,' agrees Bosun Stevenson. ‘Pride in our ship, pride in ourselves. Ship shape and Bristol fashion. Do you want me to outrun the fools? That useless, stinking steamer will have a top speed of only seven or eight knots, at most. Just say the word, and we can leave them eating our wake.'

‘Yes, I'm sure you can Bosun. And why not, eh? Let's show them a clean pair of heels. We don't need that oily stink anywhere near us, or the interfering snoops that they are, even though we've nothing to hide at the moment. But perhaps not in a week or so, eh, men?'

The vague, far-off sound of a speaking trumpet on the cutter carries over the space between the two ships but is drowned out by distance and the thud and smack of the acres of canvas and the noise of the wind.

‘They're raising signal flags, Captain,' says the Bosun.

The Captain sees me waiting by the steps that lead down to his cabin. ‘Boy!' he shouts. ‘Fetch my signal
book. It's the black one on my desk. Marked Signal Book,' he adds, as if I'm an idiot.

As I go below, Bosun Stevenson bellows, ‘Ease out the jib! Adjust the main boom. Ease it. Ease it! Not too much. Look to that angle.'

The ship's bow moves a few degrees to starboard, the motion gently changes, and the speed noticeably increases.

The Bosun's commands are obeyed almost instantly. The crew doesn't question his calls. He is tall and dignified and carries a Bible. I find it incongruous that he is part of this crew, as the rest of the band seem little better than Godless modern day pirates.

I go to hand the Captain the signal book.

‘No, you do it, boy. What do their signal flags read?' he asks. It is obvious he already knows.

I fumble through the pages and check each coloured flag flying above the distant cutter against the pictures in the book. ‘Heave - to - and - prepare - to - be - boarded.'

‘That's going to happen,' laughs Mr Cord cynically. ‘The damn fools obviously don't know our Captain.'

Another string of flags is raised on the cutter.

‘Heave - to - or - we - will - fire,' I continue. I look up in surprise. Fire? Really?

‘Okay, boy, you can get out from under my feet now.
Go and stand against the stern rail,' orders the Captain.

‘If they fire, you'll be the first one hit standing there at the stern. That'll lighten the ship's load by a few pounds,' laughs Mr Cord.

I don't think that is amusing at all, but a few minutes later, a puff of smoke erupts from the single gun on the cutter's foredeck. Immediately, there is an explosion and large splash to the left of the stern, not far from me, as the cannon shell hits. I duck instinctively. A massive column of water sprays over me. A distant boom is carried away by the wind. Luckily, no thanks to Mr Cord's prediction, I am not hit, but I can feel my heart starting to thump, just like it did earlier in the day when I was hanging from the mast.

‘Well, I wasn't expecting that,' declares the Bosun, surprised. ‘That was close.'

‘They're a rum lot. Normally couldn't hit a cow's bum with a banjo,' says the Captain, not looking at all bothered we are under fire. Real actual gunfire!

‘Retired relics from the Navy, who've been too long baking their brains in the sun, I'd say,' mutters Mr Cord. ‘Can't usually see straight, let alone shoot straight.'

‘Retired relics? What, like most of us?' asks the Bosun, smiling slightly.

Another boom sounds as a second shot fires. This falls
astern of us as well but even closer. I duck again in alarm, unable to help myself. What if a shell does hit the deck? It will explode, and we'll all be blown to bits and killed.

The Captain laughs as if he hasn't a care in the world. ‘I'm reminded of the famous last words of Union General Sedgewick in the war with the Confederates, who said, why do I need to get down, they couldn't hit an elephant at this dist… ahhh!'

Several of the crew standing close to him laugh heartily.

‘Captain?' I ask, almost pleading, imagining their third shot landing right where I stand.

Seconds later, it almost does, the splash of the shot completely drenching me. It lands so close it barely misses the hull.

‘Ahhh!' I yell loudly in surprise.

‘I think the Customs might have a new gunner,' the Bosun declares. ‘One with a keen eye. That was far too close for comfort.'

‘It looks like you may be right, Bosun. That unlucky Union general gives me an idea.' The Captain glances about and sees me cringing at the stern rail shaking like a leaf. ‘Boy,' he calls. ‘Do you know what the flag of the United States looks like?'

I nod, not sure my voice will still work after the shock.

‘You'll find an American flag in the Bosun's locker over there. Run it up the halyard on the backstay, toot sweet.'

‘Captain?' asks the Bosun.

‘We are on the high seas this far out,' he replies. ‘Her
Majesty's Customs can't go firing on United States' ships. Wars have been started by less.'

‘But we're not an American ship,' he declares.

‘You and I know that, Bosun, but that Customs' captain can't be sure. Imagine the diplomatic row if we were American and he hit us,' says the Captain.

With shaking fingers, I quickly haul the fluttering flag as high as it will go.

‘Nothing more to worry about, boy. We'll be out of range before they decide it is a ruse and can reload. And besides, they are fortunate we don't fire back. Isn't that so Mr Smith?'

‘Aye, right enough Cap'n,' replies Mr Smith. ‘I's sorely tempted to lob a shell down that stinkin' chimley of theirs.'

‘You want to smite them most severely in revenge?' says the Bosun, smiling only slightly.

‘I surely does,' Mr Smith replies, also grinning. ‘Look at the state of me. They drenched me to the skin.'

I don't understand how they can laugh when they've only just escaped being blown up.

Within twenty minutes the cutter has eased away and almost disappeared, leaving only smoke to mark its place, but the experience leaves me terrified and still shaking. I've only been at sea ten hours, and have already nearly
been killed twice. This is the first time I have ever been shot at, and I hope it is the last, though listening to the crew talk, they seem quite used to gunbattles.

‘Bosun Stevenson,' the Captain orders. ‘Alter course. Nor'-west, direct for Singapore. Just as soon as that god-awful oily stink has cleared and that damn cutter is completely over the horizon. We don't need to advertise to them which way we are headed.'

I gulp in surprise. Singapore? Home of opium dens, smugglers and Chinese pirates. The most wicked place on earth. Bosun Stevenson looks up as if feeling the wind on his face. He pauses for a few seconds, considering, and nods slowly and deliberately. ‘This breeze will drop off before nightfall, but it'll return. Smells like it's going to hold, and then some. Shouldn't be a problem, Captain. Usual rendezvous? Behind the island?'

Straight into the dragon's den. What has my mother sold me into? Could we really be heading to Singapore to buy opium to smuggle home in banana boxes, or will it just be tobacco and alcohol and other contraband goods? According to everyone who has ever been there, Singapore is the end of the civilised world where even worse villains than those in Broome have washed up. Mind you, compared to war-ravaged Sumatra, maybe Singapore is not so bad an option. Not that I have any
choice in the matter, of course. Is Singapore to be the exotic port where I die?

As the Bosun predicted, the breeze drops right off towards evening, and the Dragon barely moves. The Captain emerges from his cabin with a couple of pistols and a crate of empty bottles. ‘Boy! Here! Now!' he commands.

Oh God, I think, is he going shoot me? Have I been that much of a disappointment as a ship's boy already?

I reluctantly scurry to the rail. ‘Captain?'

‘This is a Colt .45 Single Action Cavalry Model. You hold this end, bullets came out the other. Don't get them confused.'

I look up at him. Is he making a joke? Who would confuse the two ends anyway?

‘You pull back this hammer with your thumb until the second click, sight down the barrel and gently squeeze the trigger. Got it?'

I nod, still a little confused about what is happening. I have never even held a pistol before, let alone fired one.