‘Bowen. Heading home to Australia,’ says the Captain.
I can feel the tension between them as the two men size each other up. Peabody’s eyes dart about, taking in every detail of us and our boat.
‘So what’s a pearling lugger doing all the way out here?’ he asks.
‘We were shipwrecked,’ replies the Captain, ‘and found this tub to get us home.’
‘No cargo then?’ he asks.
‘No cargo, no pearls, no shell, nothing of value. We barely escaped with our lives,’ replies Captain Bowen.
He is very cautious, which is not like our captain, but then the Minerva probably carries more than a dozen men who will have all sorts of weapons. There is no real effective law out at sea. They could kill us all, just for the fun of it, toss our bodies overboard, and no one would have any idea. Unlike the Black Dragon in a similar situation, we cannot fight back or outrun or outmanoeuvre anyone on a lugger like this one.
‘So nothing to trade?’ asks Peabody.
‘Nothing, Captain,’ replies Captain Bowen. ‘Just the time of day.’
‘Now that is a pity,’ says Peabody. ‘I’m sorely disappointed.’ He hoicks up a wad of phlegm and spits it on the deck.
He looks about again and this time notices Anna and Mrs Crawford standing near the mast. A sinister smile slowly forms on his face. He takes a few steps and places his hand on Anna’s shoulder. She pulls back, startled.
‘So Bowen, nothing to trade, eh? What about these two doxies here? What will you take for the women? Comely sorts. I have US dollars. A hundred each?’
Someone behind me swears. It could be any of our crew. I dare not turn away and look. Peabody has made a mistake. A very big mistake. We all know what our Captain is like. This is about to turn nasty. I am convinced of it. Seconds later, the same person behind me gasps in surprise at the sound of a metallic click.
I stand still, shocked. This is not what I expected at all. It is not Captain Bowen, but Anna. She has a small, silver, pearl-handled pistol in her hand. In an instant, she lifts it up to Peabody’s face, the barrel of her gun sitting on his cheek, wrinkling the skin just under his left eye. Her hand doesn’t shake in the slightest.
Startled, he lifts his hand to knock Anna’s arm away, but luckily for him, he hesitates, as there is something about her expression. Her eyes squint slightly, and the sides of her mouth turn up in a satisfied smile as if she is going to enjoy what is about to happen next.
Peabody just frowns in confusion, evidently not quite believing his predicament. You can tell he is used to being in charge, and suddenly, now, he is helpless and seconds away from a messy death.
‘It’s loaded,’ Anna hisses slowly and quietly, ‘and I’ll blow your brains out, all over this deck, as certain as the day is long.’
Astonishingly, Anna sounds just like Captain Bowen in a tight fix — soft yet absolutely menacing. Captain Peabody is so shocked he is speechless.
To my further amazement, Mrs Crawford also has an identical silver pistol. Her arm is extended, and the gun points directly at First Officer Sharman’s heart. The distance is short so she won’t miss, no matter how bad a shot she is. This is the last outcome any of us expects.
As I reach for the pistol tucked in my belt behind my back, I hear another click as Sam cocks his weapon, and steps out from behind the mast, then a second double-click further away as Mr Smith does the same with the rifle.
‘Gentlemen,’ says Mrs Crawford to the whalers, ‘I suggest you all lay your pistols on the deck, slow and careful. We have had plenty of practice at shooting rats, and you are just more vermin.’
The men look to their skipper, and then, seeing him nod, take their guns from their belts and lower them to the deck. They all seem a bit dumbfounded at the sudden turn of events. No more astonished than I am, though. What a great big fat surprise.
One of the younger whalers standing further back, though, keeps hold of his gun. He lifts his arm slowly, hoping no one will notice.
There is the crack of a shot and an immediate scream of agony. The young whaler drops his pistol. It clatters to the deck. He hops about on one foot while clutching his other boot with both hands. ‘The wench has shot me in the foot!’ he screams.
Mrs Crawford smiles but keeps the gun barrel pointed at him. ‘Call me that again, mister,’ she hisses, ‘and the wench will shoot you in your other foot as well.’
‘You are lucky it wasn’t your head, you damn drongo,’ scolds Captain Bowen, his voice low but getting angrier by the second. ‘Now you lot can get off my vessel before I throw you off. And if I ever see your miserable hides within a thousand miles of Australia, I’ll feed your worthless carcasses to the wombats. In fact, I will throw you off my craft, you green-sickness carrion!’ he shouts. He lifts his boot, puts it between the skipper’s broad shoulders and gives him a mighty push. With a surprised yell and flailing arms, the man topples into the sea with a loud splash. ‘Get out of my sight. Thou dost infect mine eyes!’
The Captain immediately swings around and sees the young whaler still hopping awkwardly on one leg. ‘You too, fool-born barnacle!’ He grabs him by the front of his shirt and, in one smooth movement, heaves the young man over the side. The young whaler cries out in shock as he hits the water, his arms flailing about. A third crewman realises what is coming, runs to the side and hurls himself over. Unfortunately for him, he lands right in their own lifeboat. There is a crashing thud as he hits. He shrieks in pain then groans several times as the boat lurches, threatening to overturn. The fourth whaler looks about, grasps the situation is hopeless, and he too jumps from the deck and lands with a splash.
As the whalers scramble into their lifeboat, Mrs Crawford steps up to the rail and aims her silver gun again.
She fires, pulling the trigger five times. The shots crack loudly and bullets splash all around the lifeboat. The crew yell and duck low in fright, hauling their oars.
‘You missed them, Mother,’ says Anna, sounding disappointed.
‘I meant to, dear. I was just reminding those Yanks that they need to be more gentlemanly in their behaviour. How much do you want for the women, indeed!’
I smile, enjoying the scene.
‘Mr Smith on the mainsheet!’ Captain Bowen yells. ‘Bosun, alter course. Jibe across the wind. Head straight at the whaler. I want to pass within spitting distance of her stern. Sam Chi, get below and get me a metal bucket full of hot coals from your galley fire. And tongs.’
Everyone scurries away. ‘Red, you played cricket at Christian Brothers. I once overheard you tell the Bosun. Now you have the chance to hit a six and make it worthwhile.’
I look at him, astonished. What on earth is he talking about? Cricket? Has he lost his mind?
The Captain tosses me the broken end of an oar. ‘Okay, Red,’ he says, ‘Australia against the United States. See if you can reduce them to ashes.’
I square up as if on a pitch and tap the deck several times. Using his stove tongs, Sam reaches into the bucket and lobs a hot coal about the size of a billiard ball towards me. I step forward, bend my knee and swing at it with all the skill I can muster. Whack! With a shower of sparks, the hot coal soars into the air, across the narrowing gap between our boat and the whaling ship and onto its deck. It smashes onto the timber. More red and yellow sparks scatter.
I hit another. ‘What the …!’ yells a crew member as a red-hot coal hits him full in the chest and then falls to the deck. He frantically brushes away sparks.
I whack another, and another. The fourth glowing coal lands in one of the big cauldrons on the deck, just as I intend. A mighty whoosh erupts as the whale oil in it catches alight. Flames shoot from the big black tub singeing the loose flapping sails. Within seconds, fire spreads, though not as fast as when we set the luggers alight. The whaling ship is constructed mostly from iron, but there is still plenty to burn, especially the stacked-up barrels of whale oil. Thick black smoke quickly fills the air between us. In all the swirling darkness of the
inferno, several crew members rush to roll barrels overboard before they can explode.
Captain Peabody and his lifeboat crew have managed to climb into the small boat, and row frantically towards their ship. The whaler who landed in it by accident is slumped over the stern. The younger one who was shot in the foot rows even though his foot must hurt like crazy. They are over halfway there.
I lean on my cricket bat as if I am the Australian cricket captain Jack Blackham satisfied at having hit the winning runs. I imagine the applause from the crowd in the grandstand.
‘I didn’t want them coming after us,’ says Captain Bowen, as if I need an explanation. ‘That’ll slow them down, considerably. And besides, the Indian Ocean whales, what’s left of them, will be thanking us.’
I look towards the whaler and the thick black smoke billowing skywards. The boat crew still row frantically but have not yet arrived back at their ship. They will undoubtedly be in for a hectic, hot time saving it when they do manage to get back on board.
On the whaler’s deck, the rest of the crew anxiously fight the flames with buckets of water while two men wrestle to unwind a long fire hose.
‘And remind me not to play cricket against you, Red,’ the Captain adds.
I laugh, pleased with myself.
‘Did you see the size of that exploding harpoon on their bow?’ the Captain asks.
‘It explodes?’ I ask. ‘What, in a whale’s head? That’s not very sporting.’
‘Imagine what they could have done to us with that damn thing. This way, by the time they get the fire put out and have done repairs, they will probably have lost all the will for whaling and head back home, where they belong. While we will be well over the horizon.’
AMERICAN PERSISTENCE
It is less than thirty hours later when I once more see the American whaler. It is heading our way again, this time late in the afternoon. Though it is still a long way off, the big black ship is not hard to miss as it bellows thick dark smoke from its single funnel and looks to be at full steam ahead.
‘Well, seems they have recovered from the fire,’ says the Captain. He peers through his binoculars. ‘We didn’t scare them off after all, though it looks like Red and Sam did some serious damage to the deck. It is well scorched. And they are missing half their barrels. That Peabody is an obstinate, poisonous, bunch-backed toad, isn’t he? We would have been better off if Anna’s trigger finger had slipped and sent him to the big whaling pot in the sky.’
‘What do you think he is up to, Captain?’ asks Bosun Stevenson.
‘Revenge perhaps, Bosun. He looked as angry as a sore hornet just before he landed in the drink. Maybe he plans to ram us for the fire insult? He knows we don’t have anything worth stealing.’
‘No, not revenge,’ says Mrs Crawford, thoughtfully. ‘Judging by the way he leered at Anna, I think he might have something else in mind.’
‘Ah,’ exclaims the Captain. ‘I see.’ He paces up and down a few times and then stops and studies the rigging. ‘Don’t you worry too much, Mrs Crawford. This is what we do best on the Dragon.’
She doesn’t look at all comforted. The whaling ship is big and ominous and getting closer by the second.
‘We have taken on bigger and more deadly foes in the past,’ Captain Bowen says. ‘Remember, men, the Dutch ship, Willem, in Sumatra? More guns than an Indian mogul’s castle. We sorted her out, and she was huge. Same with the pirates. More than one lot of those murderous swine have been Jolly Rogered.’
‘But Captain,’ says the Bosun, ‘this tub is not the Dragon. It’s a sluggish lugger with no quick response on the rudder. She has half the speed and can’t turn on a top like the Dragon could. And the whaler is steam powered. She doesn’t need the wind like them others.’
‘The wreckers and their exploding Dutch cannon have given me an idea.’ He smiles confidently. ‘We simply even out the playing field. Their ship is too big, so we get them into a smaller boat that we can handle. Then we give them something to worry about.’ He looks around. ‘Mr Smith!’
‘Captain?’ Mr Smith calls from the stern rail.
‘It will be twilight soon,’ the Captain continues. ‘Do you think you could rig up a lantern and send a Morse code message to that damn ship?’
Mr Smith nods. ‘No problem at all. I just need a board or something dark to block out the light.’
‘Good. Tell them, if they let us go unharmed they can have the women for a thousand dollars.’
‘Captain!’ shrieks Mrs Crawford.
Anna, who stands by the rail, falls back onto it in shock.
‘Mrs Crawford, it is a ruse. Believe me, those Yanks will not get anywhere near the two of you. And Mr Smith, also advise them that our dinghy is damaged so Captain Peabody will need to row over here to collect the … er … goods.’
Mrs Crawford’s eyebrows raise at being called that, but she doesn’t say anything further and heads below, not quite in a huff, but not happy.
‘Now men,’ calls the Captain, ‘those two old Dutch cannons mounted at the bow …’
‘We are going to blow the dinghy out of the water?’ interrupts Sam sounding excited.
‘No, Sam. We saw what happened last time one of those old cannons was fired. I don’t want to chance it blowing up and sinking us like that. Wheel one of them back here. We’ll take it from its cradle and haul the barrel up the top of the mast, out on the end of the gaff boom. Gravity can help us out.’
He looks directly at me. ‘Red, you are at the masthead.’
Of course. Who else gets the most dangerous job of all, swinging from the end of a gaff way up in the sky? Red Muggins Read, that’s who.
It takes almost as much effort moving the cannon back to the base of the mast as it did with the iron railway carts on the island, and we are soon sweating like pigs.
Mr Smith hands me a block and tackle. Gripping it in my left hand, I climb the ratlines and then edge my way out to the end of the gaff. It is very difficult as the gaff boom rises at an angle. Balancing on a single rope under my bare feet, one arm over the timber spar, I lash the block and tackle to the end of it. It takes a fair while as I have to do it one-handed while I hang on for dear life with the other. Then, again one-handed, I have to thread lengths of rope over the three brass pulley wheels. Finally finished, I climb back down to the base of the mast.
Just sometimes, like now, I regret beating up Brother Christian and getting expelled from school. It would undoubtedly be a lot safer place than here.
‘Now,’ says the Captain, ‘we wrap the cannon in canvas, loosely, so it looks like a caught-up sail and not a cannon in a canvas sleeve, and haul it to the top.’
After draping the canvas all over the cannon and fixing it on, Mr Smith ties the other end of the hanging rope from the gaff to the end of the barrel. ‘You’ll be needin’ to put your backs into it,’ he says.
Mr Smith is not kidding. Using the pulleys just like hauling up the mainsail, we slowly raise the cannon barrel inch by inch up to the end of the gaff. In spite of the pulleys acting to lighten the load, it is still massively heavy. With every muscle in my arms screaming to stop, Mr Smith finally ties down the rope end. The disguised cannon slowly swings vertically in a small circle, exactly like a hanged criminal from a gallows.
Mrs Crawford arrives back on deck carrying a long case.
‘Captain?’ she asks, ‘do you think this might come in useful in a situation like this?’ She flips the catches on the case and lifts the lid. It is a gun case lined with rich dark-blue silk that contains a long rifle with a stock of highly polished teak, as well as a matching double-barrelled shotgun. Most surprising, though, is that all the metal parts are made from silver that has been engraved and etched with elaborate elephant patterns. Other gun tools and two small wooden boxes of ammunition fill spaces in the case.
Mr Smith coughs, perhaps in surprise, though I suspect more likely envy. I too am definitely envious.
‘It was a present from the King of Siam,�
�� she announces. ‘I taught his favourite wife how to read and write English, and he presented me with the engraved guns as a token of his appreciation.’
‘Mrs Crawford, you are a surprising woman,’ says the Captain.
‘James Purdey and Sons, out of London. A matching pair,’ sighs Mr Smith, admiringly. ‘Big-game hunting guns. Your king was very generous, Mrs Crawford. Very generous indeed.’
‘I suspect they may be valuable, Mr Smith,’ she says.
He nods, agreeing. ‘You have no idea, Mrs.’
‘They’re signalling back, Mr Smith!’ calls Anna.
‘A, G, R, E, Agreed,’ sounds out Mr Smith, reading the flashes from a lamp on the whaling ship. ‘Two hundred and fifty and you can go free.’
‘Send back “five hundred” and see what they do,’ answers the Captain, with a grin.
‘Agreed. Five hundred. Pull into the wind and wait.’
‘The cheek of them,’ exclaims Mrs Crawford, angrily, ‘haggling over us like ducks in a Bangkok street market.’
‘A double-cross coming up, Captain?’ asks the Bosun.
‘By them, most probably. By us, most certainly,’ he replies, a small smile appearing on his face. I love it when the Captain is planning like this, devious yet confident. Something exciting always happens.
Within minutes the whalers’ dinghy heads our way. It contains Captain Peabody but not the first officer from yesterday. Six others row steadily and smoothly as the sea is not rough.
‘Definitely, a double-cross, Bosun,’ says the Captain. ‘You don’t need seven men for a task like this.’
‘Nor another dinghy from the other side,’ says the Bosun. He nods towards the stern of the whaling ship.
‘Get ready everyone. Find as much cover as you can, in case they arrive shooting. Sam, you are on the boom. When I call, let the mainsheet out as quickly as possible. Let the boom swing free. Red, you are back up on the gaff. Hang on tight and take your knife. You’ll know when to use it.’
The Wreckers' Revenge Page 15