The Wreckers' Revenge

by Norman Jorgensen

  I race up the ratlines and climb out to the end of the gaff again, balancing as best I can with my left hand. In my right, I hold my knife, ready. With not a lot to do lately, I have had plenty of time to sharpen the blade to a razor -keen edge.

  From up here, the dinghy with Captain Peabody and his crew of six are soon directly below me. I can only see the top of Peabody’s head, but it is easy to tell he is not happy. He stands in the bow of his boat balancing against the boat’s swaying motion. The whaling ship moves forward, but very slowly. What catches my eye, however, is two men on the bow of the whaler right behind the harpoon gun. One bends over as if aiming. I want to yell down to the Captain and warn him, but Peabody must not know I am up here until it is too late. If he looks straight up, he will be able to see me, but that is not likely.

  ‘So, Bowen, you made a pretty mess of my ship,’ snarls Captain Peabody. ‘That wasn’t called for, setting me alight. I lost a third of my cargo because of you, and repairs will be expensive, so who’s going to pay for that? I’m going to want compensation. I know who you are. Your name has been mentioned in our part of the world. I’m going to tie you up in the maritime courts until your nose bleeds, if it’s the last thing I do.’

  ‘Courts? You need to keep well away from the courts, Peabody. Anybody who buys women and young girls has no business anywhere near the legal system unless it is at the end of a court-appointed hangman’s rope. The courts are reserved for decent people, and for financial criminals suing each other, not evil scum like you.’

  ‘So, where are they?’ Peabody demands, ignoring the insult. ‘The two females. We have a deal.’

  ‘Seriously? You actually thought we would let you take the women in exchange for a few dollars and a promise from you not to kill us?’

  ‘Hand them over, or I will kill you. All of you,’ he snarls.

  ‘One of the females is here,’ says Mrs Crawford. She steps out from behind the binnacle at the stern of the lugger. In her hands she holds the silver Purdey rifle, both triggers cocked back.

  ‘Not so fast,’ says Peabody. ‘I lift my arm, and we bring Armageddon down on you. And besides, at that distance …’

  ‘It is not buckshot, Captain. It’s a solid bullet the size of your thumb. At this distance, it will go right through you and your foul gizzards, and continue all the way to China, believe me,’ interrupts Mrs Crawford. ‘This is not the first time I have used it. The only Armageddon here will be you arriving at the fires of hell sometime in the next few seconds.’

  ‘It’s not even Mrs Crawford and her expensive gun who is your worst nightmare, Peabody, but Red Read,’ warns the Captain.

  Peabody looks puzzled trying to work out who Red Read might be and what other threat looms over him. And loom over him is exactly what it does. One quick slice from me and several tons of solid iron cannon will land right on top of him, squashing him flatter than a flounder.

  ‘I’d be cautious about what you plan from now on, Captain Peabody,’ says Captain Bowen, his voice low and clear, ‘very cautious. See that cannon on our bow?’

  Peabody looks forward but says nothing.

  ‘It is loaded with an incendiary shell. If there is even a single shot or any sign of you trying to ram us, one shell into your hull and your cargo of whale oil will go up like the world’s biggest firecracker on Guy Fawkes Night, or, in your case, your Fourth of July celebrations. As you are probably aware, incendiary shells burn white-hot. One shot is all we need, and they’ll be able to hear the bang all the way to Nantucket.’

  Captain Peabody says nothing but visibly pales.

  ‘Now, Peabody,’ continues the Captain, ‘you and I have nothing more to discuss, and you have nothing to consider other than leaving here as quickly as possible. Mrs Crawford and her daughter stay with me, under my protection. Clear? Go home where you belong. Get your stinking ship away from my nostrils.’

  Captain Peabody stands balancing against the motion of his boat for a further full minute before deciding to leave empty-handed. He turns and growls at his crew as he sits on the seating plank. As he does so, by chance, the rope that attaches the pulley to the gaff boom snaps under the weight of the heavy Dutch cannon. Revolving slowly directly over the dinghy, without a sound, it drops like an enormous, long boulder. It misses Peabody by inches but smashes right through the dinghy’s floor, promptly shattering it with a loud crash. The seven men are caught entirely by surprise and flail about as their boat almost instantly sinks beneath their feet.

  The gaff boom jerks, suddenly free of the hefty weight, and nearly catapults me into the sea. I grab hold of the timber as it swings wildly. I am shocked but should be okay if I fall, as I am over the water, not the deck, and we are hardly moving. Even so, it is a long way down. Luckily, I manage to keep my grip.

  From up here, I can see the whaling ship clearly. I regain my senses, my heart suddenly beating like a bass drum. ‘Captain!’ I yell, ‘on the ship. The harpoon gun!’

  A puff of smoke and a bang erupts from the gun, and I watch mesmerised as the tow rope uncurls in a rhythmic pattern as the harpoon hurtles towards us. It hits the top of our hull right near the ladder and explodes in a shower of splinters, blowing a hole as big as a bucket. Everyone ducks at the sudden noise.

  The harpoon gunner has quickly fitted another missile into the barrel of his gun. He looks up as if judging the distance between us and adjusts the elevation with a handle.

  Mrs Crawford promptly lifts her rifle to her shoulder and, without seeming to aim, fires. She hits the harpoon gunner squarely in the chest. The bullet, large enough to drop a charging elephant, hurls him into the air like a rag doll. Seeing it, his crewmate instantly flings himself face down on the deck and crawls behind the harpoon.

  ‘Phew, they’re not called elephant guns for nothin’!’ exclaims Mr Smith.

  ‘The bridge!’ I yell. ‘The first officer is at the wheel. He’s swinging the ship our way!’

  Mrs Crawford aims a little longer this time and fires again. The glass window on the whaling ship’s bridge shatters into a million pieces.

  ‘Red?’ calls the Captain. ‘You alright up there?’

  ‘The rope snapped,’ I call. ‘It wasn’t me who cut the pulley. Truly it wasn’t.’

  ‘I can see that, Red. You can get down. Anybody on that bridge with a face full of glass isn’t going to be ramming anything now.’

  By the time I climb down to the deck, Captain Peabody and his bedraggled crew have been fished out of the water.

  ‘I am sorry about our little mishap,’ says Captain Bowen. ‘That trap was a bit of insurance just in case our negotiations did not go well.’

  ‘You really are a piece of work, Bowen!’ snaps Peabody. ‘As slimy as a swarm of eels.’

  Captain Peabody is ungrateful, I feel. We could have just as easily left them to drown or feed the sharks.

  ‘What a piece of work is man,’ replies our captain. ‘Hamlet.’

  ‘Ham who?’

  ‘Now, Captain Peabody,’ he continues, ‘call over your other dinghy to come and collect you and be on your way. I can see Mr Smith is anxious to try out that shiny new Purdey shotgun there, so tell the crew no guns. That one is loaded with buckshot. We’ll be cleaning up the mess for weeks if they try anything. I’ve seen more than enough gizzards in my time.’

  He is not wrong. Once, back at the Curse, a pearling master who had lost all his money gambling committed suicide with a buckshot loaded shotgun in Ma’s best guestroom. We were still finding bits of him days later. I think to see that sight was probably worse than seeing the Cossack magistrate with no head.

  Peabody nods, sullenly.

  ‘Oh, and one more thing, sir,’ says Captain Bowen, ‘please don’t be too unrealistic with your insurance claim for this voyage. You see, last time I was in America, I bought significant shares in the Merchants’ Insurance Company of Nantucket and New Bedford. We seafarers should stick together.’

  Peabody looks at him disbelievingly. ‘Go
to hell, Bowen,’ he says quietly. He swears several foul curses and then turns and moves to the rail to wave to the crew on the other dinghy to come over.

  We watch by the sunset’s golden glow as the whaling ship fires up its boilers, its propeller churning up the sea with white foam as it moves slowly forward. After a few minutes, it turns to the west, heads directly into the sun and, happily, sets off to as far away from us as possible.

  The next morning, I still get whiffs of stinking whale oil in my nose, but that is soon forgotten as the first thing after daybreak, guess who has to climb to the top of the mast again to watch out and make sure the Americans finally got the message to clear off? Happily, their ship is nowhere in sight.

  CHRISTMAS ISLAND

  In the circle of the binoculars, a green island suddenly appears out of the haze. It rises from the sea and towers skywards. ‘Captain!’ I shout from the masthead. ‘Dead ahead.’ We have been expecting to see Christmas Island for the past hour, so he knows what I mean. He stands at the bow holding the forestay while scanning the horizon. There have been plenty of birds, especially frigate birds, circling overhead, and vegetation in the water, so we knew we were getting close.

  Mrs Crawford appears at the top of the steps. I am surprised to see that she has changed clothes and is wearing a man’s shirt and pants, probably from one of the pearling crew’s seachests.

  ‘Captain,’ she says, ‘seeing as you are shorthanded, I thought I might offer my services.’

  ‘Mrs Crawford?’ he asks, sounding puzzled.

  ‘I grew up on the coast. I can handle a ship’s wheel as well as any man.’ She laughs. ‘Well, except young Red, obviously.’

  With a smirk on his face, Mr Smith steps aside from the wheel, and she takes over. Within seconds, it is obvious Mrs Crawford indeed knows what she is on about. She quickly shows she has a deft touch, adjusting the wheel as the jib ripples and watching the telltales, so the sails remain tight and smooth.

  After a short while, I see the men nodding amongst themselves in admiration. I don’t imagine any of them has ever seen a woman controlling a ship before.

  As Mrs Crawford steers us eastwards along the coast of Christmas Island, I am amazed at the sheer ruggedness of the place. The cliffs are vertical and monstrously high, the rocks savage-looking, and the dark-green jungle seems to cover every inch.

  ‘Mrs Crawford,’ the Captain calls back along the deck to where he stands amidships, ‘we need the north-east corner. Flying Fish Cove is at the far end of the island there.’ She nods in reply.

  ‘Red, when we arrive you can drop the anchor. There is shallow water in the bay. Rocky bottom.’

  Ten minutes later Mrs Crawford spins the wheel to port and turns the lugger into the wind, leaving the sails flapping lazily.

  I look about. The mountain towers above the water higher than anything I have seen before. Golden frigate birds circle high overhead, but they are still way below the summit. The face of the mountain is thick with vegetation, and thousands of white birds nest in trees that grow precariously from the almost vertical slope.

  On the rocky beach, a massive pile of sawn logs is piled high, but no workers can be seen close by.

  Although there is a jetty like the one on our deserted island, with a small steam train and ore wagons, it is not rusty but painted yellow. Back on land near where the pier starts, two small sailboats have been driven up the rocky beach and lie in ruins, obviously victims of the latest cyclone.

  Nearby, a rusty tin shed leans over at an alarming angle. Further back, facing the bay, a street of huts, shacks and houses stand eerily deserted. Two dogs grub around in a gutter among the rubbish, fallen branches and palm fronds. It is difficult to be sure from this distance, but just like our guano island, a cyclone has obviously damaged the settlement, though this one has been recent and not devastating like some others. The debris from the destruction is new, and no attempt has been made to clear up yet.

  The crew all scan the land, but besides the dogs there is no sign of life. It is like a Wild West ghost town. ‘Has everyone been killed by the cyclone?’ I ask Sam who stands next to me.

  ‘Most of the buildings still stand, so that is unlikely,’ he replies.

  ‘Mrs Crawford,’ asks the Captain, ‘a few of us will be going ashore, and I wondered if you would care to join us? It looks like they may possibly need some help here.’

  Ever since Mrs Crawford got angry and shot at the Americans, the atmosphere between her and the Captain has changed. I think the Captain admires Mrs Crawford’s spirit, and she has relaxed somewhat. He certainly respects her seamanship. We all do. They remain formal, but laugh a little more freely. She has even talked to me on occasion and has stopped glaring at me whenever I have any conversations with Anna.

  ‘Of course, Captain. Though, what will the locals think of me dressed like this?’ Mrs Crawford replies, but clearly joking. I don’t think she could care what anyone here thinks.

  ‘Can’t I come too?’ protests Anna.

  ‘Miss Crawford, you have your silver gun on you?’ replies the Captain, quietly. ‘Your mother tells me you learned to shoot from the wife of the American ambassador in Siam?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘Mrs John Barret. Mary Barret is her name. She became our close friend. Her husband had previously been a journalist sent to some terribly dangerous overseas postings, so Mary learned to look after herself. She is the one who presented us with the matching pistols as a farewell gift. She knew we were headed for wild and lawless Australia and seemed to think we would need them in our new situation.’ She taps her waist. The gun is evidently hidden in a fold of her linen dress.

  ‘Americans do tend to be keen on their guns. Every single Yank I’ve ever met, curiously,’ he says. ‘They go around armed like they are expecting wild Indians to attack them at any moment.’

  I smile. The Dragon carried enough guns and cannons to start a full-scale war, and the Captain is a crack shot. That can only be because he practised shooting a great deal.

  ‘Well, Anna,’ he continues, ‘three of my best men are still too weak to defend the lugger in the event that anything unforeseen were to happen, but with you still on board and able to use that, I’ll feel a lot more comfortable about going ashore.’

  Anna immediately seems much happier being given the new responsibility.

  ‘Can I give you some advice?’ he continues. ‘With a small calibre gun like yours, it is best to aim straight at a man’s belly. Men shot there don’t die straight away, but they instantly lose all interest in the fight.’

  ‘That’s not quite where Mother told me to aim,’ she says, with a cheeky grin.

  I’m not sure if I should laugh or be shocked. That is the sort of off-colour joke Sally back at the Curse makes all the time. How does Anna even know about such things?

  The Captain bursts out laughing, of course. ‘There’re some bad blighters out at sea, Miss Anna, and we don’t know who or what is ashore here, so keep your wits about you. If by the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes, then shoot first and ask questions later. If we hear any shots, we’ll be straight back, so keep fighting them off until reinforcements arrive, okay?’

  Anna smiles, seemingly satisfied with this arrangement, or maybe it is the happy thought of shooting some attacker in the privates.

  ‘Mr Smith, you ready?’ he calls. ‘Sam? Red, go and haul the dinghy around to the ladder, if you please.’

  The dinghy has been towed behind us for all the journey so it is still half full of water and will need bailing out. I wonder whose job that will be?

  The now dry dinghy glides the last few yards into the shallows, and as we hit the beach, I stow my oar and jump from the gunwale onto the shingle shore and pull on the bow rope. The others also leap ashore, but the Captain helps Mrs Crawford down like she is alighting from a carriage. I sort of wonder why because Mrs Crawford looks and sounds like she is more than capable of looking after herself. She reminds me of my mother, i
n the same scary kind of way. Perhaps they are both being polite, and the Captain is showing what decent manners he is capable of displaying. I can’t understand why, as she is not his type at all. Everyone knows he prefers barmaids, actresses and, of course, lady hotel owners.

  We walk slowly and carefully towards the houses, stepping around the scattered rubbish and fallen branches. No one comes out to meet us. Ahead, a door hanging from a single hinge bangs against the frame, while the two dogs we saw earlier snarl at each other over a dead bird. A sign proclaiming Tom’s Tavern and General Store swings in the slight breeze, creaking noisily, reminding me of the Smuggler’s Curse’s sign at home

  ‘Where is everyone?’ asks Sam. ‘Like Red said, they can’t have all been killed by the cyclone.’

  ‘You are right, this one can’t have been too fierce as most of the houses are still standing. They had shelter.’

  As the Captain speaks, a shot rings out, loud and sudden, the sound echoing in the street. Dirt to the right of us bursts up as a bullet ploughs into the sandy road.

  ‘Stay right where you are!’ shouts a voice from ahead.

  Mrs Crawford is right beside me. I feel her arm move as she shifts her pistol from her waistband and quickly hides her hand from view behind my back. Mr Smith takes a slow step to the left, and I hear the click as he pulls back the hammer on the Winchester. Sam Chi slowly and carefully moves his right hand behind him to where he has his pistol tucked into his belt.

  ‘We have come ashore to help you,’ shouts back the Captain.

  ‘We had all the help we need from you Cossack bastards last time.’

  ‘That wasn’t us,’ the Captain replies.

  ‘We’ve seen your lugger in the cove. As plain as day, Cossack painted across the stern. You drank us dry, violated our womenfolk and left a disease. You are not welcome. Get off our island now and don’t come back! Ever!’ As if to add emphasis, he fires again, once more scattering dirt to our left.

  ‘We are not from Cossack. I stole their boat after they attacked us. I’m Captain Bowen, owner of the Black Dragon out of Broome,’ he calls back.