The Wreckers' Revenge

by Norman Jorgensen

  The Captain begins to reach into his jacket where I know he will have his Colt tucked in his waistband. ‘I should do the world a favour right now and put you down like the miserable, mad dog you are. You deserve it, you wretched worm.’

  ‘Captain, we need to go, sir.’ It is Mr Smith standing just behind Captain Bowen. He catches my eye too and nods. It is then I see the other crew members, all of them, dotted among the crowd. Sam Chi, Rowdy, Briggs, Bosun Stevenson and the others. They are easy to see among the throng as, unlike the Captain, they are still dressed like pirates, and their guns are not very well hidden. In spite of the searing pain in my backside, I suddenly feel warm and safe for the first time in six months.

  ‘Constable Kelly,’ calls Captain Bowen. ‘Be a good bloke and take Mr Roe inside and make him a cup of tea, while he signs Red’s release papers. If you would be so kind.’ He turns to me and says, ‘Come, Red. And do your fly up before you scare the horses. We have a train to catch and fair wind to find to take us north.’

  The magistrate must have recovered some composure. ‘Bowen,’ he hisses, ‘this is against the law.’

  ‘No,’ replies the Captain, ‘this thrashing is an abuse of the law. The boy is a child. Decent people do not beat children. Only cowards, bullies and puffed-up, self-important officials do that.’ He stares directly into the magistrate’s eyes, unblinking. ‘You want to beat someone, Roe, you pick on me, then we’ll see how far you get. Now please go and sign Red’s release form. We’ll wait.’

  The sound of half-a-dozen Colt pistols being clicked echoes loudly in the courtyard. Constable Kelly steps closer to the magistrate and says very quietly, ‘Use your eyes, man, for God’s sake. Do it. Sign the form or his crew will shoot you dead on the spot. I know him. I guarantee it. He will just have to nod. They are loyal to a man. Beyond loyal. Now, if you want to keep on living another minute, I suggest we do exactly as he says. We go inside, sign the damn paper, then we get a quiet cup of tea, and forget we ever heard of Red Read and Black Bowen, if you want to keep on breathing that is.’

  Magistrate Roe turns positively pale at the thought of his forecast death.

  ‘And Bowen is friendly with half the senior police in the state,’ continues Constable Kelly. ‘He’d likely get away with killing you.’ As they turn to walk back to the police station, I overhear Constable Kelly whisper, ‘They’ll probably give him a knighthood too for doing so.’

  Less than five minutes later, Constable Kelly returns to the courtyard with the completed form. He hands it to Captain Bowen and then reaches forward to shake my hand. ‘Godspeed, boy,’ he says warmly, ‘and I am sorry you had to go through that. I hope we meet again someday in better circumstances.’

  The Captain and I walk towards the railway station with the rest of the crew following behind to protect our backs, as usual. It is only a few hundred yards away, so it doesn’t take very long, but it feels like a thousand miles, every step reminding me what just happened.

  ‘We are taking the train, Captain?’ I ask, incredulously. The crew has, in effect, just busted me out of jail but are now taking public transport to get away from the scene of the crime? ‘Won’t they be after us?’

  ‘Look about, Red,’ he replies, laughing slightly. ‘Would you come after us? Perth coppers aren’t usually armed, whereas we have enough weapons with us to start a small war. And what copper would want to risk getting shot just to stop young Red here from running away from a savage beating? They are basically a decent lot. Half of them would be pleased to see the end of you. Though, unfortunately, we all did get to see the end of you.’ He bursts into laughter at his unintended joke and all the men join in. ‘Horrible sight, if ever I’ve seen one. Horrible. And besides, you have it in black and white, signed and delivered, that you are free to go. So go we shall.’

  Me, I go as red as a beetroot at the thought of my pink arse on display to what seemed to be every single person in Perth.

  AT FREMANTLE

  I stand the whole way to Fremantle on the train even though there are plenty of empty seats, then we walk the short distance from the station to where the Black Dragon is moored at the end of the long jetty. Each step feels like I have pants full of razors slicing into my poor, butchered bum.

  Two large steamers are tied up along the way, their stacks lazily leaking smoke, and ahead of them, several high masts of windjammers point to the sky with flags fluttering in the afternoon sea breeze. Overhead, seagulls swoop and squawk shrilly.

  At the mouth of the river nearby, cranes, dredges, steam piledrivers and swarms of men work like frenzied ants to create a new Fremantle Harbour. The noise close up must be deafening as even from this distance, it is loud.

  ‘Men,’ announces the Captain when we are finally on board the Black Dragon, ‘we’ll chance staying here for a few days. I can’t imagine that fool magistrate will take any action, but we’ll keep a lookout, just in case. He can be a vindictive cove. We’ll run up a yellow quarantine flag. The thought of a shipboard pox like typhoid or cholera should be enough to scare off any nosy coppers. It’d scare me off. If you come back from town and see the yellow flag isn’t flying, then you know we have trouble. Stay away.’

  The men nod.

  ‘Off you go then,’ he commands, ‘and I’ll see you back on Sunday morning. We sail at dawn. Me, I’m over to the Esplanade. Red, you are off to your hammock below.’ He pauses. ‘No, in fact, you can use my cabin until I get back. Ask Sam Chi for something to ease the pain and help with healing. I’m sure you have the right ointment in your box of secret potions and concoctions, eh, Sam?’

  ‘I do, Captain. A recipe from my honourable grandmother, from my father’s side. Very ancient. From China. It could sting a bit.’

  I screw up my face at the thought of more pain.

  ‘I dunno,’ declares Mr Smith. ‘Young’uns these days are gettin’ soft. After a dose of the cat-o’-nine-tails in the olden days, we’d toss a bucket of saltwater over ’is back. That’d clean the cuts and stop infections in one swoop. Now, that stung a bit. A lot, actually. Worser than the beating. And then it’d be back to work for the miserable blighter.’

  The Captain returns on Friday evening just as the sun sets over the far outline of Rottnest Island on the horizon. A few of us sit by the hatch cover playing cards. So far, I have lost one shilling and sixpence, an absolute fortune.

  ‘Bosun Stevenson, Red,’ he calls as he strides across the gangplank. ‘Join me and Mr Smith for dinner, gentlemen, if you would be so kind. I’ve had a few thoughts I’d like to discuss as to our next ad … voyage.’

  I swear he was about to say adventure. I must also say he looks surprisingly tired, considering he has just had nearly a week off work. I am more than happy to join the men in the Captain’s cabin though. It will be a slap-up feast, I’m betting. After six months of the small, rank meals at school, I plan to eat everything I can get my hands on, especially as Sam will be cooking it.

  About an hour later, the four of us sit around the Captain’s polished jarrah table. He pours a glass of claret for Bosun Stevenson, Mr Smith and himself and one for Sam Chi who arrives a few minutes later carrying a tray laden with a steaming hot lamb roast, a mountain of vegetables and a jug of mint sauce. Delicious. There is no claret for me, but instead, I get a goblet of Sam Chi’s home-brewed ginger beer. It feels good to be invited to share dinner with the men. Their conversation is so much more interesting than the purile chatter of the boys in the school dining room.

  ‘Normally,’ says the Captain, ‘gentlemen gathered like we are this evening for dinner would drink the first toast to the Queen, but as we are so often at odds with the dear lady and her avaricious tax collectors, perhaps that might be a tad hypocritical. Can I suggest, instead, the first toast this evening be to Master Red Read, scourge of ill-tempered and aberrant schoolmasters and protector of small children. Red, we are all proud of you and what you did,’ he pauses and beams at me, ‘and we are pleased to have you rejoin the Black Dragon. To Re
d!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ add the others.

  I feel my face redden, but I am also as proud as punch. And then I hop into the roast until my plate is bare and shining like a new coin.

  ‘Captain?’ I ask later in the evening after the plates have been cleared away, by me, while the men smoke and sit relaxed.

  He looks up. ‘Red?’

  ‘When I was in the lock-up, I noticed these marks on a wall. You can only see them by lamplight at night. Not in the daylight, and normally no one goes in the cell at night. It’s not really a cell, more like a storeroom.’

  ‘What marks are those?’

  ‘These.’ I take the folded piece of writing paper that Constable Kelly gave me and on which I had copied the marks as accurately as I could.

  He flattens it out on the desk and moves his lantern close to it. My copy of the drawing of the long-haired man is a bit amateurish.

  ‘I copied it because of that word, bulyon. It sort of reminded me of bullion, like in gold bullion. I thought you might be interested and might know what it all means.’

  The Captain studies the paper for a long time and then says, ‘Mr Smith, you old sea dog, what say you?’ the Captain asks, pushing the paper towards him.

  ‘I’d say this was writ by someone who uses sounds to write, not proper English, like what I use,’ he says, thoughtfully. ‘Listen. Wil-yum dam-peer, buly-on, kokonut i-lind. It’s obvious. William Dampier, bullion, Coconut Island. Then N tip Hom, 100, 100, 100. North tip Home. Duk duches priz guam? 1710. I don’t know what the three hundreds means, but duk could be Duke, so Duke, Duchess, then Prize. Guam, Guam Island, and 1710 is still 1710, obviously.’

  He stops and scratches his head. ‘Het kerkhof der europeanen? Nope. Doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘I know that one,’ says the Captain, slightly excited and pleased with himself. ‘It’s Dutch. The graveyard of the Europeans. It was what everyone called Batavia. It was built on a swamp. Every deadly disease that ever existed could be found there. Pesthole of the Orient. You know Batavia. Northern Java.’

  ‘I know the final words,’ interrupts Mr Smith, ‘kersd be wornd? That would have to be, cursed, be warned. From that, I’d say the treasure is cursed.’

  ‘It always is,’ laughs the Captain. ‘Always. Every single lost treasure I have ever heard of is supposed to be cursed. Red, who’s your friend, the bookseller in High Street?’

  ‘Mr Shepherd?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him. As soon as Mr Shepherd opens his bookshop tomorrow, I want you in there to buy every book you can find on William Dampier. Any book that even just mentions him. Got it?’

  Oh, good. I wonder what else I might be able to buy at the same time. Shepherds must have had a lot of new books in since my last order. Some boy at school had mentioned a new book called Dracula. It sounded good and gruesome and is about a vampire that drinks blood. I wonder if they will have that in stock.

  I can almost see the wheels turning in the Captain’s mind as he works out a plan. I know him well enough by now. I’ll lay odds we will be heading off towards Batavia before seven o’clock Sunday morning, come hell or high water, curse be damned.

  ‘Another glass, Sam Chi, while I consider this. William Dampier’s bullion, eh? I vaguely remember reading about him in the Illustrated London News once. The man was a famous explorer. Sailed all over the world. Landed on our coast and even named Roebuck Bay in Broome after one of his ships. But in his early days, he had been a pirate in the West Indies. One of the most successful ones ever, by all accounts. He stole millions, literally millions in gold and jewellery and coins. Everything he could lay his hands on. Bled the Spanish dry by looting their South American cities and pirating their ships.’ He smiles and sits back in his chair.

  ‘William sounds just like your sort of cove,’ says the Bosun. ‘I think you two would have got along famously.’

  ‘What exactly are you implying, Bosun?’ laughs the Captain. ‘Now, Coconut Island. I’ve not heard of such a place. Have you, Bosun?’

  ‘Can’t say I have, Captain,’ he answers. ‘Coconuts? It must be in the tropics. South Seas?’

  I know about the South Seas. The place is reportedly infested with cannibals. I am glad we have avoided that area so far. Can you imagine? I don’t want to be an islander’s lunch.

  The Captain reaches forward for his glass of claret but then sits bolt upright and smiles knowingly. ‘Veni, vidi, vici! I should have twigged immediately. It is Latin. Coconut in Latin is Cocoes. I’ll wager Red’s chastity that Coconut Island is the Cocos Islands, way out in the Indian Ocean. The place is just about sinking under the weight of all the coconuts. Red, the first thing I want you to find when you get the books tomorrow is if Dampier ever visited the Cocos Islands. I’m betting he did.’

  HEADING NORTH

  An hour after sunrise on Sunday morning, the Black Dragon, all sails aloft straining against an easterly breeze, clears Gage Roads, the name given to the sea between Rottnest Island and the mainland, for some odd reason. We run across the wind, surging through the swell as we head north. I am surprised at how effortlessly I settle back into the rhythm of seaboard life. The feel of the sun, the wind and sea spray on my face, the creak of the timbers, the slap of the canvas sails and the swaying motion beneath my feet all have a warm familiarity. Even the smell of the decking tar is almost sweet, but not quite. It still smells like tar.

  After weeks of stuffy classrooms, bored teachers, childish fellow students and a strict timetable, not to mention the prison cell, it feels like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. No wonder the Dragon’s crew sign on for more adventures at sea. They are all now wealthy enough to retire, but every single one is on board and working hard to keep the sleek black boat flying along at top speed.

  ‘Geraldton, Red. Our first anchorage. There’s someone there who may be able to help us in our search. Tomorrow evening at this rate. She likes this wind, and see, I told you we need you on board. Several extra knots, at least.’

  I smile. ‘I’m sure glad to be back. And look, dolphins.’ Four dolphins swim off the starboard bow and happily plunge in and out of the water as they race ahead of the ship in the white bow wake.

  ‘That would have to be a good omen,’ says the Captain. ‘Been to Geraldton before, have you, Red?’

  ‘Yes, once. My auntie lives there. Ma and me, we visited a few years ago. It’s a bit of a dump from what I remember,’ I reply. ‘The drains smell bad, and there were a lot of rats.’

  ‘True. And the windiest spot on all God’s earth in my opinion. And I’ve been to plenty of windy places. Still, we’ll spend the night, have a slap-up meal at the new Freemasons Hotel, swankiest place in town, catch up with my mate, and be off again in the morning.’

  After dinner, I make my way along the cabin towards the bow where the hammocks are slung. I am on middle-watch tonight, from midnight to four am, so I need to get some sleep in advance.

  Next to my hammock, against the hull, sits a brand-new seachest made from a light-coloured wood, almost golden in colour. It is highly polished, fitted with shiny metal hinges and corner protectors. On the lid is my name, carved deep into the timber, along with an outline of the Black Dragon and two crossed daggers, as well as the year, 1898. It is as handsome a piece of craftsmanship as I have ever seen.

  I look to the crew, most of whom still sit at the galley table at the far end. ‘Where did this chest come from?’ I call. ‘Who made it?’

  A couple of the men look up, but just shrug.

  ‘I dunno,’ says Mr Smith.

  I open the lid. Inside are my black clothes, my long black boots, my dagger in its scabbard, a pile of books and, sitting on the very top, a brand-new Colt revolver with a bone handle. I pick it up to feel the weight and look at it more closely.

  ‘Hey, Wild Bill, don’t you go pointing that thing at me,’ calls Bosun Stevenson.

  ‘Did the Captain buy it? Did he buy the chest?’ I ask.

  ‘I honestly hav
e no idea,’ he says. ‘You’ll have to ask him.’

  It has been great to be back on board the Dragon, but now I feel as if I really belong, as if I am right at home. I run my hand slowly over the carved lid of the new chest before smiling and swinging into my hammock.

  The Freemasons Hotel is indeed a flash new hotel on Marine Terrace, the main street in Geraldton, just back from the foreshore. I sit in the plush dining room near the window while eating breakfast with Bosun Stevenson and Sam Chi. None of the others has come down from their rooms, even though the Captain said we’d be leaving early.

  ‘Hey, look at this!’ exclaims Sam as he hands me his folded newspaper. I see from the date it is a few days old.

  The headline takes up the top of the page, ‘Assassination Attempt in the Heart of the City’. I read on, hardly believing my eyes.

  Assassination Attempt in the Heart of the City

  Well-known Perth law officer, His Honour, the Magistrate Jeremy Roe, was gunned down in the street on Saturday evening as he left the Weld Club in Barrack Street. The assailant is unknown at present, though police are conducting extensive enquiries.