The Wreckers' Revenge

by Norman Jorgensen

  I slide down to the deck. ‘Bosun! Bosun, I need you. Look,’ I cry, pointing north. I put my shoulder under his armpit and haul him to his feet so he can see better.

  ‘Red?’

  ‘Look! Who else sails like that, a broad reach across the wind, then the opposite tack, zigzagging down the wind? It’s dangerous. You can easily snap the mast. Most skippers take the easy way and run before the wind, straight. I only know two who would tack like that. You and the Captain.’

  It takes him a few minutes to work out what I am saying. He watches until the distant boat tacks again. That’s him,’ he says simply, ‘and look at their flag on the backstay. If that ain’t a message, nothing is.’

  Sure enough, fluttering in the wind from the backstay is a brightly coloured flag, as red as my name.

  THE TARTAR

  The Tartar is not far away on the port side, and I can see everyone on board clearly. I count them. They are all still on their feet, so thankfully, typhoid has not run through the boat. I had not expected to see everyone standing at all.

  Mr Smith and Sam Chi row the dinghy over, tie it to my lugger and climb up the ladder. Mr Smith grabs my hand and then puts his other hand on my shoulder, before pulling me against his chest. ‘Red, everyone thought you were a goner. Certain. ’Cept the Captain. ’E didn’t believe you’d be dead. ’E drove us like a madman, searching for you, crisscrossing the sea. Day and night, on and on, relentless. Tacking, jibing, tacking again. Full sail all the time, no matter how strong the wind. Fair wore the boat out, ’e did. Fair wore us all out.’

  ‘Did he really?’ I ask.

  ‘’E knew you would ’ave turned south to escape the force of the gale. And then, there you was,’ adds Mr Smith, the smile wide across his face.

  ‘You didn’t arrive a minute too soon, Mr Smith,’ I reply. ‘The lugger is about to sink. Below decks is awash. A few more hours, at most, and we would have all been fish food.’

  ‘She’s very low in the water, that’s for sure.’ He looks about and sees Bosun Stevenson, Briggs and Rowdy lolling about on the foredeck, all as relieved as I feel, but still too exhausted to stand. ‘Now let’s get you over to the Tartar. You look done in.’

  ‘No,’ I protest, ‘you have to take my crew first. They have been so sick. Fair near dead, sick. They need help as soon as possible.’

  He nods and smiles slightly, then he and Sam gently lower the three men into the dinghy with a rope and a bowline loop tied under their armpits. It is an easier job than it previously would have been, as all three have lost so much weight. Luckily, they are conscious, and the Bosun is making sense, so they are not entirely dead weights.

  I stand leaning against the port stay, watching the dinghy pull away, and can hardly believe it is nearly all over. Mr Smith and Sam come back for me less than half an hour later.

  Mr Smith helps me down the ladder steps into the dinghy, because, for some reason, I am suddenly not too steady on my feet.

  ‘You kept your crew alive,’ he says. ‘In spite of everything, sailing single-’anded for all this time. The Bosun told me. ’Ow did you do it, boy? Incredible.’

  I look up from my seat in the bow of the dinghy, as the two men row, to see the Captain by the rail on Tartar’s deck, watching as we draw closer and closer, the oars splashing quietly. He catches my eye then nods, lowering his head. Is it the traditional sign of respect? I am pretty sure it is. The look of pride on his face gives it away.

  ‘Captain Read, it is an honour to welcome you aboard!’ the Captain announces loudly, touching his forefingers to his forehead, as I climb to the top of the ladder and step on deck. I am surprised that his eyes are wet. I can hardly believe it. Not the infamous Captain Black Bowen, hard as coffin nails, scourge of customs, pirates, gun runners and callous Dutch officers. And, in that exact moment, I know for certain my real name is not Red Read, but Red Bowen.

  ‘Captain Bowen,’ I announce equally loudly, going along with his little naval formality, ‘it gives me great pleasure to …’

  Before I can finish the sentence, a loud, curious noise sounds behind me. Everyone turns to look. The Charlotte, my ship, and my home for the past few grim weeks, gives out a mighty groan as if she is dying, and, in a slew of bubbles and swirling water, slips, bow first, beneath the waves, leaving my home-made raft bobbing on the surface surrounded by floating rubbish.

  ‘Well, Red,’ the Captain continues, ignoring the scene, ‘it seems that the Roman historian Tacitus was right. The brave and bold persist.’

  ‘Not your good friend Mr Shakespeare, Captain?’ I reply, smiling even though every muscle in my face wants to droop in tiredness. ‘I’ve missed him.’

  ‘That was a bold and brave effort, Red. You made me proud. A voyage that would have made William Dampier proud. Damn it, it would have even made Captain Cook green with envy.’

  ‘Green with seasick, more like,’ I laugh. ‘But thank you, Captain.’ He does not need to know how close to despair I actually spent most of the journey, wanting to just give up, curl up and cry my heart out.

  The Captain thinks for a moment before continuing, ‘He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion, Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing, act one, scene one.’

  And then, with nothing I can much ado about it, sleep overwhelms me, and the last thing I remember is thinking my eyelids feel like lead weights and my legs have turned to jelly.

  Something is not right. We are sailing in the wrong direction. I reach for the ship’s wheel, but it is not in front of me. I begin to panic. We’ll snap the mast or capsize if we stay on this tack. I can feel the breeze getting stronger on my face, the right side of my face. It should be on the left.

  ‘Red, wake up, you are having a nightmare.’

  I open my eyes and find I am lying in a hammock strung up near the bow, and it sways as the lugger ploughs into the waves, heading north. Miss Anna stands beside me holding a mug and shaking my shoulder with her other hand. I squint into the setting sun. Is it that late in the afternoon? How can it be? Where has the day gone?

  ‘Sam Chi sent you this,’ she says. ‘You’ve been asleep for a long time. It’s Ceylon Highland tea. From the big house on Cocos. It seems they only had the very best of everything in the pantry there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say as she hands me the mug and I take a sip. It is hot and delicious.

  ‘Your crew have been talking about what you did,’ she continues, ‘sailing the lugger all alone like that day after day. How you saved them. They think you are a hero, Red. The Captain won’t stop talking about it, too.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ I say, trying to sound humble, in a heroic sort of way. If Anna wants to think I am a hero, I am not going to disillusion her.

  The fact that we are in the middle of the ocean on a small boat full of men, along with Anna’s stern-looking mother, might mean it is not ideal for any thoughts of romance, but I can dream. And dream I do. If I try anything, though, or even get overly friendly, the crew will tease me ragged, and from the looks of Mrs Crawford, I’d say she would throw me overboard before I managed to get anywhere near Anna.

  ‘They sent me to see if you were awake,’ Anna continues, ‘as we have a big dinner, a party, planned in your honour. Sam Chi has been fishing and has caught lots of fish of all sorts, and seabirds, and he has turtles too. And canned fruit and vegetables from the Cocos house. Delicious.’

  The dinner at sunset is indeed delicious. We sit in a rough oval on a canvas sail spread on the deck beneath the boom. Most of the men seem comfortable and relaxed with their legs crossed. The food is in bowls in the centre and smells mouth-wateringly good. Grog from the Cocos house has been opened and bottles handed around, and the men seem very happy about that.

  Surprisingly, I find I can eat very little, and my three crew eat hardly anything at all, as their appetites have still not returned, but at least they are able to join us.

  ‘Not hungry, Red?’ asks A
nna. She sits directly opposite me, but unfortunately, right beside her mother. Mrs Crawford peers intently and suspiciously at me, weighing every syllable I say. Her judgmental eyes remind me of mad Magistrate Roe, God rot his maggot-eaten soul.

  ‘It looks like I might be out of the habit, Miss Anna,’ I reply, stupidly. I had hoped to sound witty and entertaining. I can see Mrs Crawford trying to work out if there is any hidden meaning in my words, or if I am just plain boring.

  ‘Eat up, Red,’ laughs Captain Bowen, ‘and build up your strength. Our adventure isn’t over yet, not by a long chalk.’

  I hope he is wrong about that. I am exhausted deep to my core and want nothing more than to go straight home. I miss the girls at the Curse and all their playful teasing of me, and I miss my ma too.

  ‘Now you ’ad a taste of captaining. We’ll ’ave to find you another boat,’ laughs Mr Smith. ‘One that will stay afloat.’

  ‘A bit careless, that,’ says Sam Chi, also laughing. ‘You must be the youngest, richest skipper without a boat.’

  Mrs Crawford nearly chokes on a piece of grilled turtle. You can see the expression on her face after she recovers and Anna pats her back. Can this ill-mannered, grubby boy with sun-darkened skin peeling off his nose and shoulders really be rich?

  The Captain smiles knowingly, but he must have also seen the expression and the tiredness on my face. ‘I found the ship’s charts, Red, and there are instruments on board, surprisingly, so I know where we are now, and I’ve set a course for Christmas Island. You and I have Dampier’s clues to test, haven’t we? Then, after that, it’s home to Broome as quickly as this bathtub will take us.’

  He reaches for a bottle and pulls out the cork with his teeth. ‘Everyone, eat up, drink up. You earned this, men, these past few weeks. And look, it paid off. We have the cheeky little blighter back with us.’ He raises the bottle. ‘Here’s to the hero of the hour,’ before he takes the longest swig.

  ‘A ’ero just as annoying as ’e ever was,’ says Mr Smith, just quietly enough for everyone to hear. ‘Can’t we just throw ’im overboard and get on with our quiet lives?’

  MISS ANNA CRAWFORD

  We have been sailing north for a week, and I have been recovering my strength and my enthusiasm and feel much better. I spend some time on the wheel each day, and the Captain also sends me aloft as I still have the keenest eyes, but there is nothing to see. The Indian Ocean in these parts is completely deserted. Every day is the same with the clear, pale blue sky and endless deep, dark-blue water and white waves. The wind is keen, so we stay reasonably cool even though with every hour we sail closer towards the equator.

  I sit on deck leaning against the mast having just finished resplicing the frayed end of a jib sheet when Anna arrives and sits beside me, carefully tucking her white skirt beneath her.

  ‘Does your mother know you are up here?’ I ask. ‘She doesn’t seem that keen on me.’

  ‘Oh, don’t take it personally,’ she replies, her eyes smiling, ‘she doesn’t like me talking to any boys. She likes to think I’m still a little girl. She forgets I’ll soon be as old as Juliet.’

  ‘What? Juliet from Romeo and Juliet? I ask. ‘Have you been talking to the Captain?’

  ‘He’s been reciting to Mother and me some evenings after dinner. I think he is pleased to have an audience as the crew don’t seem to appreciate his Shakespeare.’

  ‘I have noticed.’

  ‘Tell me, Red, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be in school?’ she continues.

  ‘I was in school,’ I reply. ‘Christian Brothers in Perth, but I had to leave, so I’m here with Captain Bowen, adventuring. We are treasure hunting.’ I am not going to tell Anna I was expelled for beating a teacher half to death. What sort of heartless brute would she think I am if I did that? That would probably be enough to scare any girl away.

  ‘But why treasure hunting?’ she replies. ‘Didn’t Sam Chi say you were rich?’

  ‘Things just seem to happen. Life’s like that with Captain Bowen,’ I say.

  ‘I can imagine. He’s … very dashing,’ she says.

  If Anna were to find out about even half the stuff I have got up to since I joined dashing Captain Bowen’s Black Dragon she would be so shocked.

  ‘Mr Smith told me about you defending the little boy at school and getting arrested. And all about you in Sumatra. Is it true you were nearly hanged?’

  I shrug as if it is no big deal.

  ‘I think Mr Smith really does like you in spite of wanting to toss you overboard,’ she says.

  ‘He does, and I like him,’ I reply. ‘He looks out for me and treats me a bit like a son. Like the Captain does.’

  ‘I haven’t got a father. He died before we went to Siam,’ she says. ‘That’s why we went. So mother could earn money as a teacher of English.’

  I look at her, now even more interested. ‘Siam?’ Siam sounds as exotic as Sumatra, though I don’t suppose they have headhunters there. I know they do have elephants and use them in battle. That would be worth seeing. That would be really worth seeing.

  ‘Mother was teaching in Bangkok. At the palace. She teaches me too, so I don’t go to school. I’d like to, though. I miss other people my own age,’ she says rather wistfully, ‘Mother says I can talk to you, but if you try to take any liberties, at all, I am to slap your face as hard as I can.’

  I sit speechless for a moment, trying to imagine what sort of liberties Anna might mean. While I am trying to think up some to take, the shadow of Captain Bowen falls over me.

  ‘I am sorry to interrupt, but there looks to be a sail on the horizon. Anna, if you can spare Master Read for a short while, I need him at the top of the mast.’ He bends forward and hands me his binoculars. ‘As quick as you can, sir. Nor’, nor’-west, and moving this way like the clappers.’

  It takes me only seconds to reach the top. ‘Captain!’ I yell down at the deck. ‘Two masted with a funnel. Dozen crew on deck. Ten to twelve knots, directly this way. Low in the water, so heavy cargo. She’s flying an American flag.’

  ‘American? Out here? Is she a whaler? Any try-pots on deck? Any cannons?’ he cries back, cupping his hands around his mouth.

  ‘Yes, two big cauldrons and lots of barrels and one funny-looking cannon on the bow. It could be a harpoon.’

  ‘You can come down now. Up again in half an hour,’ he yells back.

  I slide down and stand where the Captain, the Bosun and Mr Smith gather at the stern around the wheel. The Bosun is still frail but likes to take his turn at the helm.

  ‘A whaler?’ he says, sounding puzzled. ‘These days? The Yanks out of Nantucket pretty well fished out all the whales in the Indian Ocean years ago. He’s hopeful. They are usually found down Antarctica way these days.’

  ‘Or he knows something we don’t,’ says Mr Smith.

  ‘Maybe they are heading south,’ suggests the Bosun. ‘Or maybe you’re right, they are up to no good.’

  ‘The funnel means she is steam-powered,’ says the Captain, ‘so she can manoeuvre around the whales, then use that powered harpoon on the bow. It takes all the danger out of it. The whales don’t stand a chance. Not like in the old days, when it was hand harpoons from open rowboats.’

  ‘Indeed,’ nods the Bosun. ‘In the old days when the whales were first harpooned, they took off at great speed dragging the boat along. We used to call it the Nantucket sleigh ride. And it sure felt like the ride of your life, and then some.’

  ‘ … or death,’ adds Mr Smith, with a smile.

  ‘Yes,’ agrees the Bosun, ‘it was fun until the whale decided to dive to the bottom of the sea, taking you with him.’ The Bosun grimaces at the thought of it. ‘I lost a good few shipmates that way.’

  ‘You were on a whaler, Bosun?’ I ask, incredulously. He had never mentioned that in the past.

  ‘I’ve served on most everything that has floated, Red,’ he laughs, ‘and a few that haven’t. Like your first command.’ Everyone laughs at my wounded express
ion.

  ‘We wait for ’em, Captain?’ asks Mr Smith.

  ‘A rough old lot, whalers,’ says the Bosun. ‘The hardest men you’ll ever come across. And nobody dare fall overboard. Sharks follow whaling ships like bees to a honeypot, though they spit out the whalers. Too horrible by half.’

  ‘We’ll meet them,’ decides the Captain. ‘There are a few rifles and pistols below. We’ll bring them up on deck but put them out of sight, just in case. You can never be too careful.’

  It takes a few hours for the whaler to come alongside, with a gap of about a hundred yards between us. The smell that wafts over from the whaling ship is enough to stun a dead elephant.

  The lifeboat on the whaler is lowered, and four men row it across, while the skipper stands in the bow like he is General George Washington off to fight the British army. Unlike Mr Washington’s coloured army uniform though, he is dressed in a dark-brown, grubby-looking raincoat that has an oily shine to it. As he and his men get closer, I notice the men smell as bad as their ship, and they are all armed, with pistols tucked into their belts.

  ‘Mr Smith, Sam Chi,’ says the Captain, quietly. It is not a command or a question, but Mr Smith knows exactly what to do. He makes his way towards the bow where he had placed a Winchester repeating rifle a short time before. Sam also takes a step back and moves behind the main mast. I see that he holds a pistol behind his back.

  The whaling skipper is first up the ladder. He is larger than I first thought, even taller than Captain Bowen, but he is fatter and broad across the shoulders with such a thick neck that he reminds me of a prize bull. His coat sleeves are rolled up revealing a mess of tattoos and ancient scars on his big arms, and he holds a short, fat cigar between yellow teeth.

  His four crewmen follow. They look scruffy and mean, but then I suppose our crew does as well, after all the months we spent marooned.

  The skipper extends a huge hand to the Captain. ‘Captain Josia Peabody, master of the Minerva, out of New Bedford, and this is my first officer, Nate Sharman.’ He nods towards his crew, and I assume Nate is the man with an evil-looking scar running from his right eye to his mouth. He shrugs.