The Wreckers' Revenge

by Norman Jorgensen

  We gather at the beach and wait for the wreckers to wade ashore, defeated and thoroughly dejected. They offer no resistance, hardly daring to believe, I suspect, that they are still alive.

  I actually feel a little sorry for them considering they are a bunch of murderous villains. They look like half-drowned cats. They sailed in expecting a quick victory over us, but unexpectedly they found themselves fighting for their lives in a storm of fire and explosions.

  ‘You all know who I am?’ asks the Captain, his voice low and sinister.

  Most of them nod, sullenly. Even the big, loud-mouthed one I remember from the battle at Cossack’s magistrate’s house, does not say a word. He just stares down at the ground and coughs up seawater occasionally.

  ‘By rights,’ the Captain continues, ‘I should kill you on this beach right now, just like those Sandwich Islanders did to Captain Cook all those years ago. Chopped him up on a beach just like this one and then cooked him. Speaking of cooking, we’re quite hungry, aren’t we, Red.’

  ‘Yes, Captain,’ I reply, quickly. ‘Ravenously hungry, and I’ve heard men taste just like pork. Long pig, the Pacific Islanders call it.’

  Several of the men turn pale and look about in panic, not knowing if we are joking or not. We look pretty wild, unshaven and still in the clothes we were shipwrecked in, or rather what’s left of the rags they quickly became.

  ‘You have a choice. I’m good at giving choices, isn’t that right, Mr Briggs?’

  ‘Yes, Captain Bowen. You gave me a choice once. Join your crew, or die. Horribly. Shark bait,’ replies Mr Briggs, rather proudly I think.

  ‘Choice one.’ The Captain holds up a finger. ‘We kill you now, and we eat you. Or, choice two, we have a bunkhouse over there. You will stay in there and not make a sound. You will not come out no matter what. I’ll position Mr Briggs outside, and if he hears even a whisper, or sees any movement at all, he will come and shoot you all dead, no matter who it is. Everyone.’ He stops to let them think about it.

  ‘Your fellow fish-mongering Cossack loons will probably attack us again tonight. Don’t come outside to join them. No matter what you hear. Everyone knows I am a man of my word, I warned you back at Cossack what I’m like. Whatever possessed you to think this mission was a good idea?’

  ‘’Twas gold, Captain,’ says one of the younger ones, looking up. ‘We’s heard you had gold here, chests full of it, and we’s were more greedy than scared of you.’ He pauses. ‘That was a mistake.’

  ‘Biggest mistake of your miserable lives,’ agrees Mr Smith, almost laughing. ‘So what’s it to be, laggards? Well-behaved, silent prisoners, or tomorrow’s lunch? I’m sure ’oping you pick lunch.’ He pats his stomach.

  The lugger crews say nothing, as there is no real choice but to follow Mr Briggs along the shore towards the settlement, their heads down, looking dejected.

  ‘Captain,’ I say quietly, as we follow the group along the sand, a little way back, ‘we don’t have any guns. How can Briggs guard them or shoot them?’

  ‘They don’t know that,’ he answers. ‘They don’t know we lost everything. The threat of anything is always far more frightening than the reality.’

  I shrug. I am pretty sure I understand him correctly. He has been good at using other people’s imagination against themselves.

  ‘But if you are worried, you could swim out to that first lugger and see what you can find. Maybe they dropped a gun on deck before jumping overboard. Before it gets dark. Off the jetty will probably be closer.’

  ‘I’ll go now,’ I reply. As I turn and walk away towards the jetty, I suddenly feel my legs turn to jelly and begin to wobble. It is not hot, but I am sweating like a pig. I am surprised, but shouldn’t be, as only minutes before, bullets had whizzed by my head and I was just about as close to death as you can get. I suddenly feel sick, and a sharp pain stabs in my belly. I quickly unbuckle my belt and, dropping my pants, squat down, just before everything I have eaten, ever, pours out of me like a putrid fire hose.

  THE SECOND WAVE

  ‘It’s your night tonight, Red,’ says the Captain. ‘The wreckers can’t bring their luggers in the dark, or they’ll hit the same reef the Dragon did. I had a look through the binoculars earlier, and that new lugger has a dinghy, a decent sized one, so I reckon they’ll use that and send some men ashore. From where they are moored out there, they can’t see the buildings here, so they won’t know where we are. We’ll light some fires and lead them right to us, or right to Red, more precisely.’

  I can feel the panic start to rise. ‘Captain?’ I ask uncertainly. Lead them right to Red? What is he sending me into? No doubt something deadly. I know he thinks the gods are looking after me, but what if they grow tired of me? It could happen at any time, maybe this evening.

  ‘The tree with the coconut surprise. It’s ready and waiting for those … gentlemen. We’ve set the trap, now to bait it, and wait.’

  We head out just before sunset. When I first joined the Black Dragon, I was terrified climbing up the ratlines to the top of the mast. It was a long way up, but this tree is much, much higher. It towers into the sky. Why is it I score all the great jobs?

  ‘There’s a rope to the ground in case you need to shin down in a hurry,’ says Sam. ‘The same line we used to haul up the coconuts. Good luck.’

  Rowdy gives me a leg-up to the lowest branch, and then, I climb up from limb to limb, sticking close to the main trunk. Eventually, near the very top of the tree, I come across the platform the men have constructed at the end of a bough. It is several wide planks taken from the jetty and lashed down. I carefully slide on my stomach along the branch and onto the planks and sit with my legs crossed. The drop is terrifying.

  Resting on the edge of the timber is one end of a sheet of corrugated iron while the other end sits on a thin horizontal pole, supported on a fork in the tree. Sand-filled coconuts piled at least three high are balanced in the corrugations. When the time comes, I merely tug on a short length of rope, the pole dislodges, and all the coconuts plummet to the ground and, hopefully, onto the heads of the wreckers.

  The tree sways scarily, and I take a deep, anxious breath. The view is astounding, and I can see for miles, the setting sun reflecting off the smooth water all around. I look over my shoulder. There are small islands in every direction and a big one far to the south. I can see smoke rising from a lot of fires at one side of it, and possibly buildings, but it is hazy and getting dark.

  The leaves on my tree are large and dense, hiding me well, so I doubt anyone will be able to see me up here. It is a pity though I am so far from the ground. If I fall then I die, there is no question about it. I have often wondered how my days would end and imagined all sorts of disasters, like being shot or drowned, or even hanged, but I never believed it would be from falling from a very tall tree.

  About an hour after sunset, someone below lights the fire near the base of the tree. It flares up quickly. ‘You alright up there, Red?’ he calls. It is Mr Smith.

  ‘I’m fine, Mr Smith,’ I lie, glad to hear his voice.

  ‘Not long now. The lugger crew ’ad the dinghy over the side, ready. They’ll see the fires now and be rowing ashore pretty sharp, I’m guessing ’alf a ’our at the most.’

  A few minutes later, another fire on the beach flares up. It is near the entrance to the tunnel-like track we carved into the jungle a few days ago. Everything is deathly quiet except for the fire crackling and the small waves lapping at the shore. Insects buzz and click, and there is an occasional faint noise on the ground way below. Then comes a sound I know well. It is the splash of oars and the creak of rowlocks. Seconds later come voices as orders are given, followed by the scrape of a boat being hauled up on the sand.

  They have several flaming torches. I see glimpses of the wreckers in the torchlight as they trudge their way towards me. They are overly confident, not even trying to be silent, talking loudly as they crash along the track. Everyone has a rifle or a pistol.

&nbs
p; I sure hope the trap is going to work. If it doesn’t, I will most likely be shot out of this tree.

  Just as the Captain predicted, the group stops at the fire right below me. I can hear them argue about which fork in the track to take. I have the rope wrapped around my hand. I take a deep breath and yank it hard. The sheet of iron instantly falls, and the coconuts plunge to the ground. Several coconuts hit branches and bounce as they drop. They thud to the sand, thump, thump, thump. I have no way of telling if I’ve hit any of the wreckers or not, but there is a sharp cry, and another, and now, no more sounds, not even the crunch of dried leaves and twigs underfoot.

  A minute or so later, someone groans and then I hear angry shouts and someone running. He suddenly screams, the loudest scream I think I’ve heard. It is followed by swearing, more running feet, more shouts. The blast and flash of a single shot scares me, and then silence. The silence goes on forever.

  What is happening way below me? I sit on the swaying platform high in the air, dead still, almost frozen to the plank, hardly breathing. What if the wreckers start shooting into the air? I have no cover.

  ‘Red! Red?’

  ‘Captain?’ I call, suddenly very relieved.

  ‘You can come down now.’

  The escape rope is knotted to a branch just above my head. I grab it, twist my leg around it, and slide all the way down just like I would have from the top of the mast on the Dragon.

  On the ground, several men are collapsed on their fronts and not moving and further back along the track, someone sounds to be in abject distress, yelling for all they are worth. The torches have all fallen to the dirt, but a few still burn.

  ‘The last man turned and ran back,’ says the Captain when he sees me look. ‘Straight into the covered pit we dug and filled with sharpened sticks. He’s skewered his right foot.’

  ‘Nasty,’ I say, sucking my teeth.

  ‘Better than having one of your coconuts land on his head,’ he replies. ‘That sure worked a treat. Are you alright, Red? That must have been a bit hair-raising being perched all the way up there. Good of you to volunteer.’

  Volunteer? I wonder where he got that idea.

  Someone not far away coughs. Five men sit on the ground, with Mr Smith aiming one of their own guns at them. They look as defeated and miserable as the crew captured in the bunkhouse.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask the Captain.

  ‘Some of the coconuts that missed hit the soft jungle floor and bounced. One broke that bloke’s knee. Another smashed that one’s foot. They did some damage. They are all at least badly bruised. Those still standing were so surprised at their heavenly assault, they were too slow to act. We were hiding in the bushes nearby, and just stepped in, hit them and grabbed their guns from where they dropped them.’

  ‘What now, Captain?’ I ask.

  ‘I think we can just about go home, Red.’

  I can hardly believe it. I try not to sigh in relief.

  ‘You can help now.’ He indicates towards the sitting men. ‘We will use their dinghy and row out to the remaining lugger. The crew on board will think it is this sorry lot of excuses returning. We climb on board and, with the help of their own Winchesters, convince them to jump overboard. And of course, they will. Happily. Then we sail away, home, the proud new owners of three pearling luggers. They could fetch a pretty penny as salvage. Would you like one, Red?’

  ‘No thanks, Captain, luggers are far too slow. And they stink. I’m going to get a schooner just like the Black Dragon.’

  ‘Are you indeed?’ he laughs. He considers something for a moment and smiles as if he has had a better idea. ‘Maybe only two luggers after all.’

  The Captain walks over to where the prisoners sit and nudges one with his foot. ‘You,’ he commands. ‘How were you to let the men on the boats know that you were successful?’

  ‘Get lost!’ grunts the man gruffly.

  ‘Fine,’ says the Captain, ‘if that is the way you want to play it.’ He looks over at me and Mr Smith and winks, then continues in a fake Dutch accent, acting like Commandant Vetter in the prison in Sumatra. ‘In that case, unless you tell me, I vill be forced to hang one of your men every five minutes until you do. Ve vill use this rope here.’ He grips the rope I just descended from. ‘In fact, I vill start with you …’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ says the man on the ground. ‘Fine. We was to wave a torch three times.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Macduff. Ned Macduff,’ he answers surlily.

  ‘Well, that is an unfortunate name. Macduff, one of my least favourite of all Shakespearean characters. We are going back to the beach, and you are going to do exactly that. Lead on Macduff.’ The Captain reaches down and grabs one of the still burning torches and throws it to the man.

  ‘You know, Red,’ the Captain continues, ‘the actual line is, Lay on Macduff, but many people misquote it.’

  Who else in their right mind even quotes Shakespeare? Let alone misquotes him? Most of us are more worried about staying alive for the next ten minutes than the accuracy of a long-dead playwright’s ravings. ‘A man can die but once,’ I quote back at him.

  The Captain laughs, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. ‘Mr Smith,’ he calls, ‘fire off a few rounds so they think we’ve all been shot.’

  I hear the action of a Winchester being worked, and a scattering of shots, loud in the night air as I follow the Captain and Macduff along the track.

  About twenty yards along, we come across Sam Chi sitting beside the shallow pit of sharpened wooden spikes and treating the foot of the wounded wrecker, using the man’s own shirt as a bandage to stem a lot of blood. The patient doesn’t look very happy at all. In fact, he is whimpering like a scolded child.

  ‘So Macduff,’ says the Captain when we reach the beach, ‘you signal and one of the luggers is going to come and tie up at the end of the jetty?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he replies. ‘At dawn, as soon as they can see. That’s the plan.’

  It is an hour before dawn, and the Captain has all the crew, as well as the prisoners, gathered on the beach at the jetty. The crew are well armed with appropriated Winchesters, rifles and shotguns.

  ‘This railway line,’ says the Captain, ‘leads from the very end of the jetty into the jungle and then rises up the hill to the mine. It is a pretty steep incline. I’d say that’s why that old steam train could only carry five wagons at a time.’

  ‘What are you planning, Captain? Why don’t we just shoot it out?’ asks Mr Smith. ‘We ’ave enough guns now.’

  ‘No, we are too close to getting out of here to take any more chances. Gun battles are unpredictable, as you can well testify, Mr Smith. Stray bullets ricocheting in all directions.’

  The Captain continues, ‘Rowdy, you, Sam and Red go to the workshop and find a couple of those big railway spanners. You will probably need a sledgehammer too. I want you to remove the train buffer at the end of the jetty. The one that stops the wagons falling over the edge.’

  Just before we head off, I hear him continue talking to the prisoners. ‘You lot. See those wagons there at the end of the jetty? You are going to push that first one back up the hill.’

  They do as they are told — but then they have no choice at all. The group disappears back into the jungle, huffing and puffing with the effort as the rusty wagon wheels howl and squeak in protest.

  Still not knowing what the Captain has in mind, we start work on the buffers. The bolts and nuts holding them are rusted in place. I hold the spanner on the first nut while Rowdy bashes it with a big hammer. It does not budge. After six huge whacks, however, I feel it move slightly, and after that, it unscrews relatively easily. Only eleven more to go. It takes more than an hour before we can finally push the buffers off the end of the jetty and into the sea.

  ‘Red, you play billiards,’ says the Captain when he reappears to inspect our handiwork.

  I nod. We have two full-sized billiard tables at the Smuggler�
�s Curse, and he has seen me play loads of times.

  ‘You have three billiard balls lined up, touching. When you hit one end, what happens?’

  ‘The far one shoots off at twice the speed,’ I reply. As I say it, it becomes clear what the Captain plans.

  The sun is well up by the time the lugger drifts into the cove, in line with the jetty. As with the earlier lugger, one of the crew stands on the bow watching the depth of the crystal-clear water.

  Macduff stands alone on the end of the jetty and waits for them, looking very reluctant.

  ‘Wave!’ shouts Mr Smith. The Captain, Mr Smith and I are on the far side of the jetty, down on the sand crouched behind a pile of drums. Mr Smith has a Winchester pointed directly at Macduff. ‘One hint of suspicion and you get this between the shoulderblades. I don’t usually miss.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ I say, quietly.

  Macduff must have heard me as he glances back nervously, his tanned face turning pale.

  When the bow of the lugger draws level with the end of the jetty, I am to lift up the stick I hold. It has a small flag attached. On seeing my signal, the crew up the hill will remove the chocks from under the ore wagon’s wheels, and it will race down the steep tracks.

  A few minutes later, I wave my flag.

  The wagon is coming. It is slow at first but gains momentum remarkably quickly with the weight of the sand, and soon races downhill at high speed, faster than a freight train, the wheels squealing piercingly.

  The crewman on the bow sees it thundering down. It is headed right for him. He hesitates, not knowing what to do. He steps to the side, then back, and, finally, in sheer terror, leaps overboard. Macduff too jumps into the sea, his fear of being shot by Mr Smith not as great as being squashed under a ton of rushing steel. I think I might have done the same.

  The speeding wagon crashes into the standing ones with the all the noise of a big cannon firing. The wagon closest to the water instantly shoots off the end of the rail track and into the air. It flies straight and slams heavily onto the lugger’s deck. It tears away the mast, leaving a huge hole in the timber. Hunks of the hull disappear in a shower of timber as the mast topples over the side. The second wagon rolls forward and upends its load of sand as it too tips off the rails and crashes down on the deck. Immediately the third and fourth wagons tip over. They don’t do half as much damage, but the lugger’s rail and deck planks are shattered beyond repair.