The Wreckers' Revenge

by Norman Jorgensen

  ‘Because they can be, I suppose. Broome attracts people like that for some reason. Cold-hearted, cruel and greedy ones, mostly. All after the pearls. They are obsessed with them. Completely possessed, like demons. But only one in a thousand shells has a pearl in it,’ I continue. ‘And pearl diving is really dangerous. When you get to Broome, you’ll see the Japanese cemetery, for all the divers who got the diving sickness, the bends, from surfacing too quickly and died, or got bitten by sharks, or drowned, or just … died. There are hundreds and hundreds of graves. Many more don’t have graves ’cause they got lost at sea in cyclones.’

  ‘So it’s not for you then?’

  ‘Hell no, I mean, heck no, I mean …’

  Anna laughs at me.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I ask.

  ‘Mother wants to open a school in Perth, probably Fremantle,’ she says, ‘for young ladies of refinement. I suppose I’ll help her out with the younger ones. I imagine we’ll stay in Broome until there is a steamer to take us south. Where do you think we should stay? Should we rent rooms at your place, the Smuggler’s Curse? I must say it is a rather exotic name. Romantic even.’

  ‘Er …’ I reply, thinking about how Meg and Sally and Julia, drift into breakfast late most mornings, bleary-eyed, not even half-dressed and usually smelling of gin. ‘Er … I am not sure your mother, Mrs Crawford, would entirely approve of the Curse. It’s …’ How do I say this without alarming Anna’s young sensibilities? ‘It really is a men’s pub. There is drinking and gambling and snooker and fighting almost every night. And swearing. Lots of swearing. Decent women avoid the place whenever possible.’

  There isn’t any trouble, really, as Ma tosses out any rabble-rousers and scallywags on their ears before they even think of misbehaving. She has one of my old cricket bats behind the bar, and she uses it, quite regularly. A quick smack in the ear instantly stops everyone who plays up.

  ‘Oh,’ Anna merely replies.

  ‘The widow Mrs Davis runs a respectable boarding house up on the hill. I’m sure she will be able to accommodate you.’

  Anna seems a little disappointed, even though I’m sure a night at the Curse would broaden her education more than she could imagine. I would prefer Anna to stay at the Curse, close by, but I also saw Mrs Crawford reload her silver pistol, so she potentially has at least six shots to discourage any liberties with her daughter that I may think up.

  At noon for the next three days, the Captain uses a sextant to set our position and mark it on a British Admiralty chart. We are indeed getting close to home. I am getting excited and can feel myself relaxing more and more with each passing hour.

  The Captain must have done an accurate job of navigating, as this morning we see smoke billowing skywards off in the distance. Then, a little later, the dull green of the bush against the red dirt of the Australian coast appears out of the sea haze on the horizon. Long, rolling waves crash white against distant cliffs. Further along the coast, the sand of Eighty Mile Beach stretches in both directions. Relief washes over me like a warm bath. At long last, after all this time. I can hardly believe it.

  ‘No need to replicate the Dutch navigators and sail too close to the coast,’ the Captain says, peering through his binoculars. ‘All about in one minute. Sixty … fifty …’

  We rush to alter course. Mrs Crawford is at the helm again, and she swings the wheel expertly, so we turn smoothly onto a new tack and sail north parallel with the coast. The smoke is indeed from Broome, and the tide is in so we will be able to sail straight across the wide mouth of Roebuck Bay and up to the small jetty at Town Beach on the northern side of town.

  Meanwhile, I stand gripping the forestay and peer to starboard, watching, as we glide past the buildings and houses of my hometown. It seems such a long time that I have been away. It is the middle of the day and hot, so the streets are all but deserted. I breathe in the familiar smell of Broome as the Smuggler’s Curse up on the headland comes into view, and I feel myself smiling as I look hard to see if anyone is on the verandah. It is probably too early, though, for Meg, Sally and Julia to be out of bed. There is a figure back in the shadows. It could be my ma. I hope so. There may be a glint from the old brass telescope that sits on a tripod on the Curse’s verandah, but I am not certain as we are still a few hundred yards from shore.

  ‘Mr Smith?’

  ‘Captain?’ he replies.

  ‘Remember in the navy,’ the Captain continues, ‘it was customary to run up a flag announcing who you were when you came into a port?’

  Mr Smith smiles and, without saying anything, heads towards the stern.

  A few minutes more, and I too smile again, thoroughly delighted, as he hauls a bright red flag up the backstay. It flutters freely.

  It sure is good to be appreciated.

  Ma stands with a small group of women at the end of the jetty. She is with the Bosun’s married daughter, Mrs Belfour, and Rowdy’s wife and, surprisingly, Sam Chi’s wife, Nancy. Luckily, there is no sign of his girlfriends or any murderous brothers. They all wait silently and watch us pull alongside the jetty and dock. Mrs Crawford has gone below so Mr Smith has taken over the helm and guides us in perfectly.

  I jump over from the lugger and loop the mooring rope around a bollard in a figure eight pattern. I straighten up to see Ma running the length of the jetty towards me, her long skirt hitched up from her ankles.

  Ma can’t help herself. She grabs me and squeezes me until I think I am going to burst. ‘Red,’ she cries, sobbing so uncontrollably that she can barely get the words out, ‘We were told … we were told you were dead. We were told the Black Dragon had sunk with all hands. We had a telegram from Cossack weeks ago. It was unbearable. I was beside myself. Oh, Red,’ she sobs some more. ‘But when I saw the red flag flying, I hoped. No, I knew. I knew. I could feel it, and there you were, up at the bow, all strong and overconfident, just like your father, like you had taken on the world and beaten it. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I still can’t.’

  I am a little surprised at her remark. I only stood at the bow to watch the shore. There was nothing confident or heroic about gripping the forestay. With the way the bow heaves, if you don’t hold on to it, you will probably topple into the sea.

  Ma holds me at arm’s length. ‘But look at you. I’ve seen better kept swagmen in the gutters of the backstreets of Fremantle. And who cut your hair? What are you supposed to be, the ship’s scarecrow?’

  Ma dries her eyes and looks up to see the Captain helping Mrs Crawford across the gap from the lugger. She has changed into her scarlet dress of Siam silk, undoubtedly of a fashionable French design, and she now looks like a photograph I once saw of the famous actress Lillie Langtry alighting from the Prince of Wales’ carriage. At her throat, Mrs Crawford wears a glistening ruby as big as an emu’s egg, or at least a chook’s egg. Anna is just behind, dressed in silk as well, her dress the deep green one I saw at Cocos. I sneak another look just for good measure.

  ‘And who is that, may I ask?’ says Ma, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  ‘Oh, that’s Mrs Crawford and Anna. We brought them from the Cocos Islands where they were stranded by a crooked captain on their way from Siam.’

  ‘Two women alone with you bunch of pirates, all the way from Cocos? In that?’ Ma nods towards the lugger.

  ‘Mrs Crawford’s great, Ma,’ I say. ‘She is like one of the crew, a good sailor and a crack shot, but better bred and with better manners. And she’s kind. I like her. She’s friendlier than she looks.’

  ‘Is she just?’ Ma says, warily, lifting her head to peer closer at them, no doubt taking in every inch of shapely Mrs Crawford and her expensive gown. ‘How friendly?’

  ‘And Anna is lovely,’ I continue.

  Again, Ma’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

  The Captain must have overheard us. He immediately escorts Mrs Crawford and Anna over to where we stand. ‘Mary, may I present Mrs Crawford and her delightful daughter, Anna? Mrs Crawford, meet Mrs Read, Red�
��s mother, as you can probably guess.’

  The two women curtsey slightly in greeting and smile, but the atmosphere on that warm jetty is as cold as an iceberg.

  ‘Tell me, Mary,’ the Captain continues, ‘I couldn’t help but overhear you. Who told you we had been killed?’

  ‘The postmaster at Cossack sent a telegram. The Dragon sank with all hands. Weeks and weeks ago. I have been hoping it was a mistake, and I didn’t believe it to start with, but when you didn’t come back, I thought I had lost both of you.’

  ‘You must excuse me,’ says Mrs Crawford. ‘Perhaps we can meet again very soon.’ She bows slightly and continues down the jetty with Anna.

  ‘I thought I had lost you. I haven’t lost you, have I, James?’ Ma asks quietly. She may have wanted to add, ‘to that brazen hussy in the tarty dress,’ but restrains herself.

  The Captain says, ‘Of course not, Mary. I’m still in one piece, thanks to Red here on more than one occasion. He’s a true sea-dog if ever I’ve seen one. Bravest sailor afloat. The boy is as hard as a rock right to his core. I can’t think where he got that from.’

  ‘Perhaps from his ancestor, the pirate Mary Read,’ answers Ma, smiling proudly. ‘She plundered the West Indies with Red Rackham. She and her friend Anne Bonny were a pair of hellcats and were the only ones to fight on when their ship was attacked by the navy, and the men all surrendered.’

  Pirating in the West Indies? I knew the original Mary Read was a pirate there, but was she around at the same time as William Dampier? I wonder if they ever met? If they knew each other? Wouldn’t that be a fabulous coincidence? Me being related to Mary is rubbish, of course, just because we share a surname, but Ma likes to believe it, so I go along with her fantasy. Besides, I now know for certain who I am related to.

  Ma seems relieved to see Mrs Crawford and Anna out of the way but glances briefly back over her shoulder at the glamorous woman in red, who is, at that exact moment, climbing up onto one of the new horse-drawn trams and showing far too much well-formed ankle.

  The Captain continues, ‘I’ll visit that Cossack postmaster sometime soon, to set him straight, and to see where his information came from.’

  ‘Ah, you won’t have heard,’ says Ma. ‘There was a colossal cyclone just ten days ago, and most of Cossack has been destroyed. It must have been terrible. The worst ever. Nearly all the buildings have collapsed, every single lugger slipped its moorings. They registered thirty inches of rain in twenty-four hours, so all the roads and bridges and the telegraph line were washed out. Most houses too. Only the stone government buildings are still standing. Some of the people managed to salvage a couple of luggers, and a lot of them have come here to Broome. They have nowhere else to go as their town is all but destroyed.’

  We both listen intently.

  ‘When we saw your lugger,’ continues Ma, ‘we thought it was more of them. It’s Cossack registered. Until I saw the red flag. And there you both were, standing up on deck like you didn’t have a care in the world.’

  ‘We caught the tail end of that same cyclone, Ma, off Christmas Island. It very nearly did for us. Huge waves, driving rain, winds like you wouldn’t believe. After all we had been through.’

  ‘Red.’ That is all the Captain says, and I suddenly remember I have been warned about what I tell Ma, or anyone, come to that. The secrets of the sea have to remain exactly that, secrets.

  MAGISTRATE ROE

  It is late, about nine in the morning, and Ma has let me sleep in. Eventually, I climb out of bed and head for the pleasant smell coming from the kitchen. I walk through the door just as she cuts a loaf for toast.

  ‘Well, come in, sleepyhead. I’ve prepared your favourite,’ she announces as I sit down, ‘especially to welcome the ancient mariner home from the sea.’ I breathe in with pleasure as Ma places my plate on the table.

  Unexpectedly, the kitchen door crashes open. Shocked at the sudden noise, I look up from my plate. Magistrate Jeremy Roe from Perth, the man I hate most of all in the entire world, and two local police officers, burst in as if they own the place. Even though it is morning, the magistrate has undoubtedly been drinking as he seems as angry as a tormented hornet. He leans against a walking stick, and I see his foot is bandaged.

  ‘That’s him! Grab the boy!’ he commands. ‘And the woman too. She’s in on it, protecting him from the law.’

  ‘What on earth? In on what? What are you talking about,’ cries Ma, pushing back her chair and getting to her feet, leaving the loaf of bread half cut. ‘I’m his mother!’

  ‘I told you I’d come and check on the boy’s guardianship. I wrote to you about the pirate Bowen, Mrs Read, but you ignored me,’ he yells, as if it is a hanging offence to ignore him. ‘You ignored me.’

  The two officers seem a bit reluctant to act. They look at each other and don’t move. They both know Ma well and are friendly with her, having spent plenty of time in the main bar. Everyone in Broome knows Ma and most people are her friends, especially the drinkers, which is just about every man in town and most of the women, except the snooty ones who live on the hill.

  ‘I have a court order!’ shouts Roe, slurring his words. ‘An official order from Perth and your name is on it, boy. Red James Read. You are a wanted criminal. A violent lawbreaker. An escapee, what’s more. You are owed seventeen more lashes with a birch, and I’m here to see that you get them. And twenty more for good measure!’ He reaches into his suit pocket for a folded form and waves it. ‘Look here! And the woman is aiding and abetting him. Harbouring a known fugitive. Grab her too!’

  I rise to my feet. They are here trying to arrest my mother. I cannot have that. That is not going to happen. But what can I do? I have my nine-inch blade in my boot, just like the Captain does, but there are three of them. Besides, it would certainly make matters even worse if I stuck any of them with my blade. I would probably get shot for my trouble. Or hanged.

  Roe sways slightly, grabs hold of the table, and looks drunkenly around the room, seeing me again. ‘It’ll be the clink for you, boy. Fremantle Prison this time. I’ll see to it. By the time you see your mam again, you’ll be a sad old man.’

  Fremantle Prison? Oh God, that grim, grey monstrosity perched high on the hill overlooking the town is the bleakest, most miserable place on earth.

  ‘And you, madam, running a bawdy house,’ cries Roe, a little triumphantly, as if he has just thought of it. ‘That is against the law.’

  ‘Leave her alone!’ I call, hopelessly.

  ‘Constable Monk, grab her I say,’ Roe orders. ‘Grab them both.’

  I look at Ma. She seems in control, though she has a look of concern on her face, and I can tell she fears the worst. She is indeed guilty of the charge of harbouring, but then she is my mother, what else is she supposed to do — turn me over to the police?

  Strangely, inexplicably, Ma suddenly grows calm and looks directly at Magistrate Roe, and, instead of frowning or even crying, the edges of her mouth turn up slightly with the traces of a smile.

  Roe looks confused. What does she have to smile about? He plainly expects Ma to be terrified. Anyone else would have been with threats like that. It is obvious Ma is not the first woman that Roe has tried to frighten the life out of. The man really is a spiteful, loudmouthed bully and if he could see what Ma sees, he’d be terrified out of his maggoty mind.

  Directly behind him, Captain Bowen has appeared like a black spectre. He fills the kitchen doorway, his face like thunder and his eyes glaring like hot coals. In each hand he holds a cocked pistol, and in his belt a long cane knife, with the morning sun glinting on the sharpened blade. I have never seen him look so angry. It is as if his rage is building to explode.

  Just like the last time I faced Magistrate Roe and the Captain stepped out of the crowd, the relief I feel is almost magical. Everything is now going to be alright. I am sure of it. I have never been more certain of anything.

  ‘Roe, you useless piece of seagull spit,’ he says, his voice low and menaci
ng. It is the same tone he had used with the Dutch officer, Vetter, seconds before he ran a blade up into the man’s brain. ‘I heard you had arrived in town. Are you looking for me? My oath, I hope so.’

  Startled, Roe turns quickly to face the Captain, nearly falling over in fright as he does so. I do not know if it is surprise, the liquor or his badly damaged foot making him so clumsy.

  ‘But … but … you are dead. I was told you had been killed in a shipwreck. I was told the boy and only a few others survived …’ he whimpers, hopelessly. ‘At Cossack, they told me … They lied to me.’

  The Captain slowly lifts and aims his guns directly at the middle of Roe’s chest. ‘And you thought you’d come after the boy because I was dead? Roe, you really are a vindictive tyrant, as well as a sniveling coward.’

  ‘Get him!’ shouts Roe. He stumbles backward, trying to get away, his stick clattering to the floor. ‘Shoot him! For God’s sake, Monk, kill him. So help me, if you don’t … Now.’

  In confusion, Constable Monk for some reason reaches to grab Ma. She steps away, and, in the same movement, reaches back towards the stovetop and grips the solid-iron frying pan with both hands. She lifts it and swings it with all her might as if hitting a six with a cricket bat. Sizzling bacon and grease fly across the kitchen as the base of the hot pan connects with Monk’s face. It clangs, just like the sound of a blacksmith hitting a horseshoe. He goes down like a skittle, blood streaming from his smashed nose.

  Roe, now on the floor, scrambles to get under the table and at the same time pulls a small pistol from under his jacket. He has his gun clear and is still trying to aim when a shot sounds.

  The blast comes not from the Captain’s gun or Roe’s, but from outside. I should have realised. I have been with the Captain long enough now to know how he operates. The large lead bullet has shattered the window glass and blown a hole in Roe’s hand in a gruesome spray of blood. Roe looks at his blood-splattered, shattered palm in bewilderment and slumps back without a further sound, numb with shock.