The lugger is soon caught in the current. The skipper at the helm fights against it. He grips his tiller and shakes his fist like a madman, but there is a little breeze and no longer a mainsail, so he has no speed against the tide as it pulls at his doomed ship. I won’t be surprised if it turns turtle at any moment, what with the sail dragging over the side.
Exasperated and furious, the skipper abandons the now useless helm and steps up to the side. He shakes his fist in the air again. He is a big fat man with a red face and a white beard. ‘Bowen!’ he shouts loudly, ‘I’ll kill you for this. Mark my words. I’ll kill you as certain as my name is …’
‘Father Christmas?’ I say, cheekily.
‘Shall I, Captain?’ asks Mr Smith, pulling down the lever on his rifle and loading a bullet into the breach. ‘You don’t need an enemy like that.’
‘No, Mr Smith. We’ll leave him deserted here. He too can learn what going hungry feels like. Something he’s obviously not very used to. We’ll give them a few months here to contemplate and regret their foolish actions before we report where they are stranded. Bunch of bloodthirsty inbreds. Wreckers’ revenge indeed.’ The Captain brushes sand from his hands, as if he is finished with the whole damn lot of them.
We row out to the newer lugger, the one the Captain wants to take, and no one challenges us even when we draw close. I see on the stern in bright new signwriting it is called Tartar. Appropriate, I think, in more ways than one. The real Cossacks from Russia were Tartars, and this bunch have been behaving like lawless, raiding Tartar warriors.
As we stop rowing and drift up to the boat’s ladder, a young crewman peers over the side. He looks bored until he sees a dinghy full of armed strangers just below him pointing guns up at him. He immediately puts his hands in the air. ‘I … I surrender!’ he calls.
‘You can swim?’ asks the Captain.
The boy nods, obviously terrified and seeming unsure of what is going on. I suspect I would be equally frightened in the same situation. No, I know I would be. I’d be terrified.
‘Then I suggest you swim to that island over there.’ The Captain points to the one where we set the first lugger adrift last week. The signal fire is still smoking. ‘You’ll find some shipmates holed up there.’
‘I hope you like rat,’ says Sam Chi. ‘Boiled, baked, stewed, fried, smoked or raw.’
‘Right now would be a good time,’ continues the Captain.
The boy doesn’t need telling twice. He immediately jumps overboard, hits the sea with a splash and swims away like he has a tiger shark after him.
We row over to the other lugger soon after. It is called the Charlotte, and is much older and well worn. It feels almost like a ghost ship as we climb the ladder and step warily aboard. The jib flaps lazily in the slight breeze, while the current tugs at the anchor. The boat has the whiff of decay about it and the typical faint stink of rancid pearl meat. Other than the usual creaks and groans of a seagoing vessel, it is ominously silent.
Mr Smith and Rowdy have their guns ready just in case anyone comes bursting up from below. No one does, though. They push open the hatch cover and jump back, ready to shoot, but still, there is no response. Not even a scurrying rat.
‘The boat is deserted, Captain,’ says Mr Smith. ‘Looks like they all went ashore.’
Bosun Stevenson shakes his head, mystified. ‘What sort of novices are these lunatics? That anchor’s going to drag sometime soon in this current. Then they’ll be laughing on the other sides of their faces as their boat sails off without them.’
‘Exactly as is going to happen now,’ says the Captain. ‘How about you bring this one back to Broome? Red can be the helmsman. By the time we get back, he’ll know every creak, groan and whisper of the four winds. Give him a great deal of experience. Rowdy and Briggs can join you too. The four of you should have no trouble. Not even from the ever-vigilant Lieutenant Collins and Her Majesty’s Customs, what with no cargo for them to poke about in.’
What did he say? Me as the helmsman? Really? I like the sound of that. I like that very much.
Sam Chi returns from searching below. ‘Captain,’ he says, ‘there’s not much in the way of provisions. Or water. On either boat. And it is a long way back to Broome.’
‘Captain,’ I interrupt, ‘when I was up in the tree, I saw fires from what could be a town or a whaling station, or something, on a big island due south of here. Not that far. A couple of hours sailing. Maybe we could restock there.’
‘Good idea, Red. Excellent thought.’
‘Problem is we don’t have any money,’ says the Bosun. ‘We don’t even have anything to trade for food. But surely the wreckers didn’t come all this way to starve? Is there a chest hidden onboard somewhere? Coins? Banknotes?’
‘I sure hope it wasn’t on one of the luggers we sank,’ laughs the Captain. ‘Still, we’ll keep looking. Though I’m not hopeful. Cossack town is not the most prosperous of places anymore, not since they overfished the pearl shells. Greedy swine.’
‘These vessels are very basic, Captain,’ says the Bosun. ‘There’ll be no hidden panels or false floors, or anything like that.’
‘If all else fails, we can rely on my good name to obtain credit,’ laughs the Captain.
I wonder if he is serious. He could well be. Or will it really be the good names of Mr Winchester and Mr Colt? I wouldn’t put it past him.
He looks over to the Tartar and then back towards the island that has been our hazardous home all these past weeks. From where we are out in the lagoon, it looks like a tropical paradise, though the charred deck and mast sticking out of the water with bits of blackened canvas fluttering in the breeze hint at something more sinister. The last lugger, now with no mast and its deck and side badly holed, has beached itself in the shallows and leans at an unnatural angle. The skipper stands on the sand beside his vessel, and even from this far distance, he still looks furious.
‘Well, she’s all yours, gentlemen. What’s she called? The Charlotte? If there are any charts on board the Tartar, I’ll plot us a course to that island Red mentioned. If not, keep a sharp eye out for reefs, shoals and sandbanks. Keep my stern in view. Stay no more than a few hundred yards back if you can.’
‘Alright, let’s take her out of here, Captain Red,’ says Bosun Stevenson as soon as the Captain and the rest of the men row back to the Tartar. ‘You’re at the helm. Rowdy, the main, if you please. Mr Briggs, the jib. Me, I’m going below to see if I can find the makings of a decent cup of tea. I haven’t had a brew since the Dragon went under. God rest her soul.’
‘Amen to that, Bosun,’ replies Mr Smith.
As usual, Rowdy doesn’t say anything but starts to unleash the mainsail from the boom, ready to raise it to the masthead. When it catches the wind and takes the strain off the anchor rope, the three of us rush to haul in the anchor as quickly as possible.
I run back to the wheel and spin the spokes, so we head due south. We clear the cove before the Tartar, but it soon passes us as we leave the leeward side of the island and protection from the elements and hit the full force of a south-westerly breeze of more than fifteen knots.
Bosun Stevenson joins me at the stern twenty minutes later, holding an enamel mug. Unlike the Tartar and other modern luggers, the Charlotte doesn’t have a wheelhouse, just a big iron wheel right near the stern rail and open to the elements. It is nothing like the highly polished jarrah and brass wheel on the Black Dragon.
‘How does she handle, Red?’
‘She’s not the Dragon,’ I say regretfully, ‘not by a long chalk. We’d be going twice the speed in this breeze.’
‘You’ll get used to her, and I dare say we’ll be able to coax a few more knots out of her before the voyage is ended.’
HOME ISLAND
We follow the Captain and within three hours see the settlement. It is large, probably about fifty shanty houses set among palm trees on a low island. A long pier extends out from an endless bright white beach into the pale blue w
ater. To the right, at least six tin warehouses face the ocean. The one closest is evidently a boat building shed as it has several half-constructed boats hauled upon a slipway made from railway tracks.
I manage to guide the Charlotte alongside the jetty without too much trouble. Bosun Stevenson stands beside me quietly calling out instructions, though they sound more like suggestions than orders, the way he does it, which I’m pleased about. ‘A little more to port, more, more, that’s enough,’ he almost whispers.
Briggs leaps onto the jetty and immediately loops a mooring rope several times around a bollard, bringing the lugger to a smooth halt. A few yards more and I will bang into the stern of the Tartar. And that would be an awful way to begin my illustrious career as a skipper.
Captain Bowen is on the jetty waiting for us. Beside him, a man wearing a Panama hat and dressed in white pants and a thin white cotton shirt, watches me climb onto the pier. On his belt, he has a knife similar to mine.
‘Mr Carstairs, Island Manager, may I introduce Mr Red Read, skipper of the Charlotte?’ says the Captain.
I see the man look at me, slightly puzzled, but he puts out his hand, anyway, to shake mine. ‘I’m pleased to meet a young man of such obvious talent,’ he says. ‘You landed your boat beautifully. For one so young,’ he adds, unnecessarily, I think. I can tell he thinks I look more like Huckleberry Finn than Captain Ahab from Moby Dick.
From his language and accent, Mr Carstairs may have once been a Gentleman, or like some of the pearling masters in Broome, but now is in need of a shave and, from the smell of him, a bath. I notice, too, his eyes are bleary, and his nose is red like those of the hardened drinkers in the Curse. He also has a noticeable tinge of yellow about his complexion, the sure signs of malaria. It is obvious Mr Carstairs has spent far too long in the tropics.
We walk along the jetty towards the land. To the left, at the water’s edge, I see that two of the open-fronted boat building sheds have large winches with a thick wire cable to haul up boats. Three long, narrow fishing ketches await at various stages before completion, though I can see no boatbuilders, just stacks of timber and all sorts of ships’ equipment like at Nipper and Dickie Chi’s boatyard back home.
Inland, more large tin warehouses are filled with coconuts and bales of fibre. Further back inland, between sandy streets lined with palms, stand makeshift houses made from rusty iron sheets, coconut mats and bits of canvas. Dogs roam about and washing flutters on clotheslines strung between the trees. The smell of cooking is delicious in the air, reminding me that I am starving. There is, however, not a soul to be seen.
‘Local natives,’ exclaims Mr Carstairs, sounding exasperated. ‘There’s work to do, boats to finish, copra to process, but they’d rather go to a funeral. Spend all day cooking for the funeral feast and then all night eating it. Damn lazy too, every last one of them. Laziest people on the face of the earth.’
I glance at his hands. Unlike Captain Bowen’s or mine, they are as smooth and as soft as a baby’s bum. It is obvious Mr Carstairs has never done a day’s work in his life. I smile slightly, thinking he may be a touch hypocritical.
‘Perhaps you don’t pay them enough,’ suggests the Captain, dryly.
‘Pay them?’ Carstairs says, incredulously. ‘They’re natives. They wouldn’t know what to do with money. We give them tokens to swap for food and the basic things they need at the company shop. They should be grateful. Without our company, they’d be starving. But, no, they’re not in the least bit grateful either. Bring back slavery, I say.’
I’ll have to introduce this fellow to my ma, I decide. She would like to see slavery returned. Well, just in my case that is. I’m sure while I am away, she is compiling a long, long list of unpaid jobs for my return.
‘No,’ continues Carstairs, ‘I’d shoot the lot of them given half a chance.’
The Captain keeps his tongue. He lets the disagreeable fool babble on, but I can tell his mind is working hard. I can imagine the Captain has lost any sympathy with this man by now, just after a few sentences. If he mistreats his workers, then I suspect Captain Bowen’s well-known sense of fair play might have been reawakened. He may even already be planning to treat Carstairs to a lesson in reprisal on their behalf.
We walk towards the settlement, and a few moments later Captain Bowen stops and clears his throat. ‘And what is that, Mr Carstairs?’ he asks, pointing to a single pole at the edge of what looks like the sandy town square. It has an iron ring bolted to the top.
‘Some of the younger men. They get a bit stroppy at times, so we give them a few lashes or more to make them cool down. It works a treat,’ he replies proudly.
‘It’s a whipping pole?’ There is a hint of disbelief in the Captain’s voice.
‘I suppose you could call it that,’ says Carstairs.
‘Remind you of anyone, Red?’ asks the Captain. I feel my blood run cold at the thought of the man. Magistrate Jeremy Roe.
‘You ever been whipped, Mr Carstairs?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ he replies. ‘Of course not. I’m an Englishman,’ as if that somehow explains why he hasn’t.
‘Well, Red here has. He tells me it hurts. It hurts like nothing else. Isn’t that right, Red?’
‘Yes, Captain,’ I reply. ‘Worse than anything.’ I take a deep breath even at the thought of it.
‘They deserve it, those that don’t work hard enough. Those that answer back and show no respect. I teach them the meaning of respect,’ Carstairs replies, ignoring me. ‘My oath, I do!’
‘Is that right?’ answers the Captain, a quizzical look on his face. ‘And who is the funeral for, someone who didn’t show enough respect?’
Carstairs does not seem to hear him.
By this time, we have reached the edge of the village. Ahead, an enormous two-storey white house, with extensive verandahs, is surrounded by green lawns and lush gardens full of European flowers. Fresh paintwork gleams in the sun.
Under the shade of a spreading banyan tree at the edge of the grass, wicker chairs and a table are set for afternoon tea. A Malay man dressed as an English-style waiter patiently holds a silver tray while serving two European women. I look more closely. One of the women is a girl about my age, the other most likely her mother. They both have flaming red hair and slight freckles and are dressed in identical white linen dresses and button-up boots. The girl looks up, catches my eye, and smiles at me, but then quickly looks away. She has green eyes and is very beautiful.
I smile back while trying not to stare too much. I wonder if she is Carstair’s daughter. I certainly hope not. Even in a few minutes, he has proven himself to be an appalling man.
‘You will join us for refreshment?’ asks Carstairs. ‘Mrs Crawford and her daughter, Anna, are guests of the estate. I think they would appreciate some new company.’
‘We would be delighted, but later, if you wouldn’t mind, sir,’ says the Captain. ‘As soon as we’ve cleaned up a bit. Ladies don’t deserve to be entertained by gentlemen dressed in rags and, as you can see, looking no better than brigands and layabouts. I haven’t seen a mirror in a long while, but I suspect I may look worse than scruffy young Red here.’
‘Of course,’ says Mr Carstairs, the look on his face not hiding that he thinks the Captain must be an even more pompous toff than he is. ‘I’m sure we can find you some more suitable attire, as well as a bath and a shave of course.’ He looks about and snaps his fingers at one of the staff. ‘Pak Yatti!’ he commands, arrogantly.
We do get to meet Mrs Crawford and Anna at dinner later that evening. The dining room is large and lined with wood panelling like an old English mansion, with tapestries on the walls. Even more unlikely, the room even has a suit of armour in a corner, and stuffed stags’ heads mounted on the walls. Along the ocean side, large windows are open wide to let in the evening breeze.
Mr Carstairs, dressed in formal tails with a starched white shirt and bow tie that have all seen better days, welcomes us like he is Prince Edward at Buc
kingham Palace, except he is much skinnier, of course. I have seen the prince’s photo often enough in the newspapers, and everyone in the world is thinner than the prince. The two women are also formally dressed, Mrs Crawford in a red silk gown and Anna in a dark green one.
I am starving, and I am afraid my manners desert me over dinner. Instead of making polite conversation, as I’m sure my ma would expect me to, I find myself hogging into every course with gusto, my mouth too full to talk most of the time. I can’t help myself and even burp quietly several times.
‘I do like a man with a healthy appetite,’ says Mrs Crawford, trying to make light of my disgusting behaviour.
Then, to make matters even worse, I fall asleep at the table. When I awake about midnight, I find myself in a large bedroom and on top of a soft bed beneath a mosquito net. I am still dressed, but my shoes and the jacket I borrowed have been taken off.
‘Good morning, Red. Feeling better?’ asks the Captain, looking up from his eggs and bacon as I walk back into the dining room for breakfast.
The table has been set with white linen and silver cutlery. On a sideboard, a range of silver dishes has been set out, smelling delicious, and the same waiters as yesterday stand ready to serve me. Mr Carstairs sure does treat himself well, though he is nowhere to be seen at present.
I surreptitiously look about to see if Anna is anywhere nearby too, hoping my behaviour last night hasn’t completely ruined my chances of getting to know her better. I suspect it has though. The windows are wide open, and I suddenly see her outside. She is sprinting towards the house, her expression anxious.
The Wreckers' Revenge Page 11