The Wreckers' Revenge

by Norman Jorgensen

  There is silence for a moment, as blood from the magistrate’s hand drips and spreads across the floor. There is a clatter as the other policeman lets his pistol fall. He looks like a bewildered puppy.

  ‘Listen,’ hisses the Captain to the policemen, ‘you want to live?’

  The two policemen freeze and stare at him, visibly terrified. The smaller one twists his head to one side and winces. Ma has grabbed the bread knife from the table and holds the point just under his ear. ‘Don’t move a muscle. Listen to Captain Bowen,’ she hisses, ‘if you want to live another minute.’

  ‘I should kill you right now, you fools, picking on Mrs Read like this, but instead, I am giving you a chance to live. You have two options, you miserable lackeys of the Queen. The best choice is, you walk away from here and forget everything you have seen this morning. Everything. You don’t breathe a word to anybody at all, ever. You hear me? Not your superiors, your families, not your friends, no one. Ever. Not even on your deathbeds to your confessing priest.’

  The policemen both nod enthusiastically, though they still look terrified out of their minds.

  ‘Or,’ continues the Captain, ‘Mrs Read here opens your throats from ear to ear with that bread knife. Your colleagues-in-arms can find your cold, lifeless, godforesaken bodies on the rocks below the cliffs, just outside there, at the next low tide, with the crabs feasting on your eyeballs.’

  He waits for a few seconds. No one makes a sound. ‘I’ve seen her do such a thing before. So what’s it to be?’

  I cannot believe my ears. My Ma cut someone’s throat? Where and when?

  ‘We … we … was never ’ere,’ stammers Monk, still sprawled on the floor half dazed, blood streaming from his nose. ‘We never reached here.’

  ‘That’s right,’ continues the other one. ‘We never did. But what about the magistrate?’

  ‘Magistrate Roe is going to be leaving government service very soon. In fact, his resignation letter will be dated yesterday, and this was a social call, where he was accidentally injured by his own gun that went off while he was cleaning it. Isn’t that right, everyone.’

  The doorway darkens again, and Mr Smith stands looking in, a still smoking rifle resting in the crook of his arm. It is one of the Martini-Henry guns from Sumatra. ‘I let the two of youse out of me sight for a bare minute, and youse gets into all sorts of strife. Again.’

  ‘Ah, indeed, Mr Smith,’ replies the Captain. ‘You saved our bacon, yet again. And speaking of bacon, ’tis a fine smell coming from this kitchen.’ It is as if there isn’t one of Queen Victoria’s lawful magistrates bleeding, sprawled at his feet.

  Ma does not seem the least bit rattled by the bloody events. In fact, she seems totally relaxed as if she has seen blood and guts and sudden violence plenty of times before. But where, I wonder. When she was younger? And whose throat did she cut? Maybe she is related to the famous pirate with the same name after all.

  ‘Roe!’ The Captain kicks the magistrate in the leg. ‘The crocs and sharks can share your miserable carcass,’ says the Captain, his voice as calm as ever, ‘with my compliments, you wretched, paltrid worm, and with the compliments of Mister Red Read here, who even at his age is ten times the man you are, you rankest compound of villainous smell that ever offended nostril.’

  Shakespeare, again, obviously. Sometimes I wish he would just stop it.

  Without another word, the two policemen disappear quietly out the open doorway. We hear the sound of their boots slapping against the road gravel as they run down the hill away from the Curse and back into Broome townsite as fast as possible.

  Ma turns to Mr Smith, ‘John,’ she asks, ‘why didn’t you just shoot him in the head and save us all a lot of trouble?’

  ‘Mary, you can’t go and kill someone for doing their job, even senselessly overzealous ones like our fine friend ’ere,’ he replies, nodding towards Magistrate Roe. ‘Though I was sorely tempted.’

  ‘So what’s it to be, Jeremy?’ continues the Captain. ‘I think Western Australia has had enough of your pedantic love of the letter of the law. I suggest for the good of everyone, including yourself, you resign here and now and Mrs Read here will patch up your bloodied hand.’ He pauses for Roe to think about it. ‘Or we toss you over the cliff’s edge for the crocs and sharks? Two choices, both of them simple. The tide is in so there will be a small splash, nothing more.’

  Magistrate Roe slowly nods, his face accepting. He has his damaged hand in his armpit, holding in the blood.

  ‘I suggest a long holiday overseas, Jeremy. In fact, I suspect you will enjoy yourself in foreign parts so much that you stay retired and never ever return. I believe the south coast of England can be pleasant.’

  The magistrate nods in agreement again. It is obvious he knows he has been soundly beaten.

  ‘Good. Now let me help you to your feet.’ Captain Bowen extends his hand. Jeremy Roe grips it with his good hand and pulls himself up. He winces in pain but doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Did you really cut someone’s throat, Ma?’ I ask, after the magistrate leaves, his hand carefully treated and bandaged by Ma. I am still shocked. ‘Who? When?’

  ‘Of course she hasn’t,’ says the Captain. ‘I was just trying to scare the gizzards out of those three. It worked.’ Then he pauses as if wondering. ‘You haven’t, have you, Mary? Mary?’

  Ma just smiles, mysteriously. ‘Well, there once was a young suitor of mine who fell for the charms of an actress, but unfortunately for him …’

  ‘So what’s for breakfast?’ the Captain interrupts, quickly changing the subject when Ma picks up the bread knife again.

  CHI’S SHIPYARD

  It has been a month since the incident with Magistrate Roe and, unfortunately, there has been talk of sending me back to Christian Brothers College. The headmaster wrote to say the coroner’s investigation into the sudden death of Brother Christian had uncovered serious questions about his conduct at the school, and they might reconsider my enrolment should I wish to reapply. I don’t wish. Who would want to go back to the dull routine of school after what I have been through these past months? I hope Ma and the Captain might not wish to reapply for me either, though I don’t really like my chances. On the other hand, both Emma at the Esplanade and Anna are now in Fremantle, and that is only a train ride from the school.

  As I stand at the sink contemplating my future, Mr Smith appears in the kitchen.

  ‘And to what do we owe the pleasure of your delightful company this fine day, John?’ asks Ma.

  He touches the rim of his cap. ‘It’s the Captain, Mary. ’E wants to see Red, right away, with your permission, of course.’

  ‘Where is he?’ I ask. ‘I haven’t seen him for at least a fortnight.’ I am about to say, Ma has kept me so busy I haven’t had a chance to even gt away from the Curse, but sense kicks in for once, as it rarely does in my case. I don’t know how Ma manages to find so many jobs for me. It is as if she stays awake all night thinking up new ones just to spoil my life.

  ‘Chi’s shipyard,’ replies Mr Smith, not giving any other information, except to say, ‘It’s important.’

  Whatever can the Captain want me for down there? I get up to leave.

  ‘You don’t have time for a cuppa, John?’ Ma asks Mr Smith. ‘The kettle is hot.’

  ‘Not today, Mary. Best not. You know ’ow impatient ’e can be. But thank you. Maybe next time,’ he replies, politely.

  ‘And you can comb your hair, young man, before you go,’ commands Ma. ‘Already you look wild again, just like when you got back. What if anyone sees you and knows you are mine?’

  I do prefer being away at sea. No one cares what I look like out there, especially not the crew, but I make sure not to say it out loud. If I’m disrespectful, she’ll find even more work for me. Who am I kidding? She will find more work for me no matter how respectful I am. Still, I go and find a brush to flatten my hair down.

  Nipper and Dickie Chi’s shipyard is only a fifteen-minute walk
away, beyond Chinatown and right on the edge of mangrove swamp near Male and Streeter’s Jetty, next to the main pearl shell sorting sheds. The tide is out and the red mud swarms with small crabs and waders, darting among the mangrove bushes.

  ‘You and me, Red, we’ve seen our fair share of adventures this past year, ’aven’t we?’ says Mr Smith as we walk together down the hill from the Curse towards town. ‘A few close shaves.’

  The day is still and warm and the sky bright blue, so somehow, it all seems like long ago.

  ‘We have, Mr Smith. Too close most of the time,’ I reply, instantly remembering how terrified I was for a lot of the events. I so often expected every moment to be my very last on earth as cannon shells, bullets, cyclones and a list as long as my arm of other deadly events and savage animals threatened to kill me dead.

  ‘The crew,’ he continues, ‘they respect you. A lot. Not bad for someone your age and who ’ad never been to sea before. You pulled up well. Helped make ’em rich. Saved a few lives as well. Damn well saved us all, if it comes to it. They all reckon you’re a shipmate worth ’aving. Not bad for a raw kid not that long ago.’

  ‘What’s the Captain want?’ I ask, embarrassed and trying to change the conversation.

  ‘You’ll see,’ he replies, unhelpfully. ‘You’ll see.’ A small smile crosses his face.

  I shrug and keep walking. We reach the shipyard and take a shortcut between two high iron buildings, the corrugated metal sheets originally painted cream but now rusting in the humid tropical weather, like most buildings in town.

  Stacks of timber of all different sizes block our way, along with off-cuts, ships’ gear, chains and anchors, spars, coils of rope and other debris, but we make a path through all the equipment strewn about. The smell of freshly sawn timber and the overpowering stink of turpentine and paint fills our noses.

  The Captain hears our footsteps, and as he turns and sees us his face breaks into a smile. He was talking to Nipper Chi, one of the owners of the yard. Once, it would have been unthinkable for Aboriginal men to own a business, but not so much now, and Nipper and his brother Dickie have built many high-quality pearling luggers. Some people in town are critical of the brothers just because of their race, but Chi boats are famous for their speed and ruggedness and are sought after by the richest Japanese pearlers. The Tartar was one of theirs, and that sure withstood some punishment these past months.

  I think Nipper and Dickie Chi are Sam Chi’s relatives, though you would never guess to look at them, but then Broome folk are like that.

  ‘Well?’ the Captain asks.

  I do not need to ask, well what? Propped up by thick grey timbers on the grubby slipway is the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. Longer and sleeker than the Black Dragon, gleaming in the morning sun, the hull of this schooner has been painted the colour of a Broome sunset, the richest, deepest red anyone could imagine. It shines like one of Dampier’s gold coins.

  ‘So what do you think?’ the Captain asks again, sounding pleased with himself.

  Words almost fail me. ‘It is beautiful, Captain. Utterly, absolutely, beautiful.’

  ‘Of course,’ he continues, ‘she officially has to be in my name until the real owner turns twenty-one, then we’ll transfer the papers on his twenty-first birthday.’

  I frown, not understanding what he means. What the dickens is the Captain talking about?

  We move to face the stern of the sleek ship, and Captain Bowen points upwards to the deck, above our heads. ‘Nipper and Dickie’s mob are just finishing off the refit. Rebuilding the main cabin. Getting her seaworthy. Then it’s sea trials in about a week. After that, I thought Christmas Island might be a good maiden voyage, seeing as we had to leave in such a hurry last time. There’s a certain cave on the north side of the island that needs revisiting. What say you, Master Read?’

  ‘I like the sound of that.’ It bothers me enormously that we didn’t get to open the chest. I’m sure it is jam-packed full of Dampier’s gold.

  Several of the shipyard’s employees work busily up on the deck, calling measurements and swearing amongst themselves. The noise of saws and hammers echoes from the back of the open-fronted sheds, and the smell of turpentine is even stronger where we stand.

  ‘Where did it come from, Captain? It is so fine.’

  ‘She sailed into port here a few weeks ago. Captain Carson was the skipper and owner. Carrying a cargo of Oregon pine from Seattle in America. I saw her moored to the end of the jetty and immediately made him an offer he could not refuse.’

  ‘You threatened to shoot him?’ I ask.

  ‘No, nothing like that. Red, you slander me. I just offered him a price that would make a maharaja weep with joy.’

  I take a few steps to the side to take another look at the sleek lines. A ray of sunshine from a gap on the tin roof lights up the starboard planking and glows on the shining paint. I have to stop myself from purring like a cat at the sight of it.

  ‘According to Captain Carson, it would have outpaced the Black Dragon, but he could just be boasting. We’re like that, we skippers,’ continues the Captain. ‘Though judging by her lines, I can very well believe it. We’ll launch her in seven or eight days and find out if he was telling the truth.’

  I shake my head and peer more closely at the finely crafted hull. The curve of the bow is streamlined and the stern too is sharply cut away at the waterline, making the whole craft look like it is as light as air.

  ‘Red, she is yours,’ he says quietly and calmly.

  ‘What are you talking about, Captain?’ I ask. I shake my head in disbelief. Am I still in bed dreaming? Any minute now, Ma is going to come in and toss a glass of water over my head to wake me up. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!’

  ‘No, no, Captain,’ I cry, ‘I’m not thankless, I just don’t understand. You are giving the ship to me? A whole ship? As a present? Why?’ I shake my head again, still sceptical. I usually get socks as presents. Or, occasionally, a book.

  ‘Red, if it weren’t for you, not one of us would be …’

  The Captain is interrupted by a loud call from one of the workers. ‘That do, Nipper?’ he shouts.

  It is Mr Deacon, the town sign-writer. He is balanced at the top of a ladder, painting the stern of the schooner.

  Grabbing his box of paints and brushes, Mr Deacon steps down from his ladder, so his body is no longer obscuring my view of his work. On the stern, he has painted a picture of two crossed daggers, the handles just like the one hidden in my boot, and, underneath the blades, written in stylish gold lettering still glistening wet in the morning sunlight, are the words:

  The Red Dragon

  Broome — Australia

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This one would have been for my dad, Jack, and my grandfather, Norm, both keen dinghy sailors. They gave me the sea, the wind and, most importantly, the true directions on the compass to follow.

  I am also deeply grateful to the following people who all made this book possible:

  Firstly, my beloved, Jan Nicholls, for her constant love and support. Somehow, she seems to always be there for me in spite of my mind being persistently back in 1898.

  Cate Sutherland, my publisher and keen-eyed editor whom I admire very much, and who brings structure, discipline and much more heart to my stories. As well as Claire Miller, marketer extraordinaire, and all the talented and fearless crew at Fremantle Press.

  My great shipmates Jan Scott, for proofreading, and Richard Scott, for his enthusiasm for the story.

  Dr Astrid Arellano, friend and infectious diseases specialist, for giving me typhoid, or at least the idea of using it in the plot.

  Lee Hegarty, Cocos Islands English teacher, for her warmth and hospitality.

  Sharon and Ian Francis from Christmas Island, for looking after Jan and me so well during our time on their island.

  The teachers at Cocos
Islands District High School and Christmas Island District High School, as well as the schools in Broome, whose classes I borrowed to test plot ideas.

  Michael Gregg from the Western Australian Maritime Museum for keeping the nauticalia as accurate as possible. He graciously allowed me a few inaccuracies for drama’s sake.

  Matt Outred for his very helpful final read through.

  The West Australian Young Readers’ Book Award committee for years of work, and for promoting my books so enthusiastically.

  And most importantly, to you, my fellow crewmember on this quest, for reading this far. I hope you enjoyed Red’s hair-raising adventures.

  Norman Jorgensen

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Norman Jorgensen was born in Broome, the eldest of four brothers, and has lived in several country towns since. At a young age he developed a love of books, especially historical novels like Treasure Island, and old movies. At age thirteen Norman learned to sail. These days he loves travelling and researching exotic places for his books.

  Norman writes award-winning picture books and novels for young readers, including The Smuggler’s Curse, The Last Viking and The Last Viking Returns (illustrated by James Foley), In Flanders Fields and The Call of the Osprey (illustrated by Brian Harrison-Lever), A Fine Mess, Another Fine Mess and Jack’s Island.

  FIND OUT WHERE IT ALL BEGAN …

  Red Read’s life takes an alarming turn when his mother sells him to an infamous smuggler plying his trade off the north-west coast in the closing days of the nineteenth century. From terrifying encounters with cut-throat pirates to battling the forces of nature in a tropical typhoon, Red is in for the adventure of a lifetime.

  Available at all good bookshops

  www.fremantlepress.com.au

  First published 2019 by

  FREMANTLE PRESS

  25 Quarry Street, Fremantle WA 6160

  www.fremantlepress.com.au