The Smuggler's Curse

by Norman Jorgensen

  THE BLACK WIDOW

  ‘This it then?’ says Mr Smith, as the cart passes through the gate and stops.

  ‘It appears to be their headquarters,’ replies the Captain. ‘Major Collingwood tells me the Black Widow’s husband was a fighter too, and her father, but the Dutch captured and killed them. Executed them on the spot. She took over as the resistance leader when that happened. Then she went looking for revenge. And boy, what revenge. She has been so successful men have flocked from all over the East Indies to follow her. All these years later, she is still seeking revenge. And a free country of course. I’ve heard the war is bleeding Holland dry. They’ve sent ten thousand troops so far already to quell the rebellion, but all that does is drive more and more Sumatrans to join her band. Fighters from Borneo and Malaya and Java have joined the fight as well.’

  Several men, looking more like fishermen than soldiers, dressed in worn and dirty clothes, peer at us. Others wear sleeveless leather waistcoats with just a strip of coloured cloth around their hips. These fierce-looking warriors have feathered headdresses and carry black blowpipes as long as a man. They stand waiting by the steps of a large warehouse staring sullenly at us. A couple of the men look edgy, clutching their weapons tightly as their eyes dart in all directions.

  A woman stands in the courtyard, erect and confident. She has thick reading spectacles and her hair in a bun held together with two chopsticks, and, surprisingly, she is dressed in men’s clothing, I have never seen a woman wearing trousers before so I am a little bit shocked. Somehow, that she also has a pistol on her waist, two bandoliers of ammunition over her shoulders and a wicked-looking recong tucked in her belt does not trouble me. Her hand rests on the handle and she gives me the impression the dagger could be out of its scabbard in a split second and buried in an enemy’s chest. Or mine.

  She nods in greeting and in accented English says, ‘Greetings, Captain Bowen, we’ve been expecting you. Welcome, and may Allah be with you.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ says the Captain, bowing from the waist.

  ‘Ma’am. Yes, Ma’am. Or you could call me what my men do behind my back — Black Widow,’ she adds.

  ‘If that is what you would prefer, Ma’am,’ he replies, flashing his most charming smile. ‘By coincidence, my men call me Black Bowen.’

  The Black Widow smiles in return and bows her head, but I can see in her eyes, dark and as cold as the Captain’s, little warmth. She has the same distant sadness in them that Teuku does a lot of the time. For once, I cannot imagine the Captain’s charm working.

  ‘Before we begin discussions,’ she says. ‘I invite your men inside for refreshment. You must be tired and thirsty after the journey.’

  I feel mightily relieved, and thankful, as my mouth is as dry as the floor of cocky’s cage. I go to step down from the cart, stopping to grab the rifle.

  ‘No sign of any Dutch patrols, I hope?’ she says, watching me sling my rifle over my shoulder.

  ‘No Ma’am,’ I say, surprised. Adults, and definitely resistance generals, do not usually ask my opinion about anything. ‘The road was as quiet as a grave.’ Then I feel foolish as that is exactly where we would all have been if a patrol had turned up — if we were lucky. The Dutch could just as easily leave us to rot by the side of the road so crabs could eat our livers for breakfast.

  ‘You seem like bright young men,’ she continues, looking at me, and then over at Teuku as he too jumps from the wagon. ‘We are always looking for new recruits. New fighters. Have you ever considered the life of a soldier? It is for a noble cause, the noblest cause of all, freedom. You could join us like Major Collingwood. The man’s a true adventurer.’

  ‘Not this one,’ laughs the Captain, putting his hand on my shoulder. ‘I promised to bring him back in one piece.’

  Teuku does not say anything all and just gazes down at his feet. Something is bothering him and he seems uncomfortable.

  We sit down on long benches in the warehouse, a spacious building with a vaulted ceiling and eat fresh rice washed down with sweet, cool rice wine. Military equipment and boxes of ammunition are stacked at the far end.

  As I reach for my mug, something catches my eye. I look up. Hanging from a roof beam is a fishing net full of coconuts. No, they are not coconuts. I peer closer into the gloom of the rafters. They are definitely not coconuts, but human skulls. The eye sockets of about twenty or thirty brownish skulls, with wisps of matted hair still attached, stare down at me, almost accusingly. I can feel my mouth hanging open in surprise. I have never seen anything like this before. The Black Widow and her men really are headhunters. The Captain has brought us into a nest of savage headhunters. I feel my heart starting to race again.

  She must have seen the look on my face. ‘Many of our fighters still prefer the old ways,’ she quietly says, glancing upwards.

  I am too shocked to reply. I have read all about headhunters, but somehow, I never really expected to meet any or be sharing morning tea with them. None of my friends back home is ever going to believe me. If I survive long enough to tell my friends, or even long enough to drink my rice wine. I have a sudden vision of my own head staring down lifelessly at me and gulp several times.

  When we finish, the Black Widow leads us outside, across a courtyard and into another smaller building, originally a stable from the look of it. We walk the length of the building to a door on the north wall. She produces a big key and unlocks a solid teak door, reinforced with nails. It opens with a click that echoes around the large room. Worn stone steps lead down into what looks like a cool-storage room.

  It takes a few minutes to get used to the dank smell and to the faint light, but when my eyes adjust, I see the cavernous space is lined with rack upon rack of dusty bottles, reflecting the little light that filters into the cellar. We all stand in silent amazement.

  The Black Widow reaches over, grabs a bottle and blows away the dust. ‘Fifty years ago a British schooner, the Edinburgh Castle, struck a reef just off the coast near here during a typhoon and went down. All hands lost. My father’s family recovered the cargo. As you can see, bottles of whisky. I know nothing of such things, but I understand from Major Collingwood that they are valuable. He strikes me as the sort of man who would know such a thing,’ she says with a smile.

  ‘Littlemill Distillery, Cap’n,’ whispers Mr Smith in awe, noticing the label. ‘I know this. It can’t be. Unbelievable. This ’as to be the legendary lost shipment. Littlemill Owners’ Special Reserve. Treasure ’unters ’ave been searchin’ for this for years. It’s said to be the finest drop ever to come out of Scotland. It’s a gold mine, this is, Cap’n. Over seventy years old, and every bottle would ’ave to be worth its own weight in gold. Maybe more.’

  ‘In normal circumstances,’ says the Black Widow, ‘we would not trade these. The Koran does not approve of alcohol, and I am a student of the Koran. But we are in desperate peril from that homicidal maniac, Colonel Kohl. We have no choice. The man is a monster. Allah forgive him when he finally burns in the deepest part of Hell, because I never will.’

  A flash of anger crosses her eyes for a moment, but then she relaxes.

  ‘Our men are brave and fighting for their homeland, but it is increasingly difficult. They are poorly clothed, underfed and tired, but worst of all they are badly armed. We need your rifles.’

  ‘Well then,’ replies the Captain. ‘I have no time for those colonial butchers. I’ve seen them in action, murderous brutes that they are. It is simply a matter of numbers. I am more than happy to do business with you, Ma’am.’

  In the end, the deal is not even a matter of numbers. It turns out to be virtually all the guns we have in exchange for all the whisky. The Captain is more than happy that he has the best end of the deal.

  Other factors, however, like us surviving the journey back along the coast with the expensive whisky, and our necks still intact, still have to be faced. I wonder what our chances will be.

  REVENGE

  We return to the re
bel headquarters the next day with wagons hired from the villagers. Nearly all the crew come, even Bosun Stevenson, though he is still in some pain and cannot walk without crutches.

  It takes hours to unload the rifles and then reload the whisky. We form a human chain, passing the gun boxes down from person to person to the cellar and then immediately reloading the wagons with the crates of whisky to almost overflowing. The buffaloes wait patiently in the sun as each wagon is loaded so full that I feel sorry for the poor beasts.

  The men fare a little better as, luckily, a cooling monsoon breeze arrives, ahead of the day’s downpour. Heaving the whisky crates isn’t as hard as it could have been under a typical tropical sun, though my back and arms are still aching.

  In the afternoon, we are fully loaded and ready to leave when Major Collingwood reappears. I notice Teuku standing by the warehouse door talking quietly to him and the Black Widow. Teuku doesn’t look happy about something, but then again, he never does seem very cheerful.

  The Black Widow walks to the wagons with Teuku trailing behind her.

  ‘Ma’am, I sincerely hope our deal here today will prove favourable to both our causes,’ says the Captain. ‘And I hope your hostile Dutch colonel meets his just desserts as soon as possible. It sounds like he deserves every unpleasantness that could befall him.’

  ‘Yes, Captain Bowen, we all hope so. I will try and make sure the rifles do the most good. Or the most harm, actually. We can never give in until the last Dutchman has left our land,’ she pauses. ‘Or is buried under it.’

  The Captain reaches over to shake her hand but she steps back quickly.

  ‘I’m sorry Captain. Traditional Muslim women are not permitted to shake hands with men,’ she says, though she does not seem insulted. ‘And I am as traditional as anyone.’

  Major Collingwood grins. ‘Not all traditional women typically lead armies and fight for their homeland. Or cause foreign soldiers to quake in their boots at the very mention of their name.’

  She smiles amenably at Major Collingwood’s description. ‘But thank you again, Captain. Not taking your hand does not mean I am not grateful to you and your men for this day. On the contrary, I forever will be. On behalf of my poor ravaged country, I thank you. I trust your journey back to your country will be a safe one, and you return to us one day when we are free from the crushing Dutch yoke.’

  Major Collingwood does step forward and take the Captain’s hand.

  ‘Good luck Major,’ he replies. ‘I don’t imagine you and I will be crossing paths anytime in the foreseeable future. And as for the Martini-Henrys, I’ve never heard of the family. They must be from Melbourne with a double-barrelled name like that. Pretentious gits.’ He lifts his hand in farewell, pulls himself up onto the wheel hub and settles into the seat next to Mr Smith.

  Mr Smith flicks the reins, the buffaloes jerk the wagon and we head back through the trees, and up the hill towards the main track and onwards, the beasts swatting the swarms of flies off their back with their tails.

  Our small convoy has been travelling for some time, and we are through the pepper plantation and descending the biggest hill, when Teuku first sees the smoke through the gaps in the thick jungle vegetation.

  ‘Captain!’ he yells. ‘Look!’

  Well below us in the valley a small village teems with life. Smoke fills the air as at least six huts burn furiously. Screams carry on the wind and in quick succession, several shots sound. Armed men in blue uniforms herd the people towards a large building. Even from this distance, we can see they are terrified. Chaos and confusion seem to be everywhere below us.

  A man in a white tunic raises a pair of binoculars towards us. He would not be able to see us clearly, as our wagons are in dark shadows from the jungle’s overhanging vegetation, but our movement must have caught his eye.

  ‘As soon as those soldiers work out we are not Sumatran farmers, we’re in big trouble,’ exclaims Bosun Stevenson.

  ‘Captain?’ Teuku’s voice sounds urgent but strange.

  ‘What is it, Teuku?’

  ‘That’s him, the one with the binoculars. That’s the colonel who killed my family. Burnt my village. Slaughtered everyone in it. He ordered it. I saw him. I heard him. That’s him. The one in the white uniform with all the gold braid over his shoulder. It is him, I swear, looking up at us.’

  ‘Colonel Kohl?’

  ‘Yes.’ Teuku holds up his rifle. ‘I can hit him from here.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replies the Captain, sounding a little unsure. ‘From this distance? That’ll be what, a thousand yards? More? Twelve hundred maybe?’

  ‘Please, Captain,’ pleads Teuku.

  ‘Shoot a colonel and you’ll bring the whole Dutch army down on our heads,’ says the Bosun, sounding wary.

  ‘The bad that men do lives on. The good is oft interred with their bones,’ says the Captain. ‘Do you really think you can do it, Teuku?’

  Teuku slowly nods, judging the distance, his face grim. ‘Mr Smith taught me well.’

  ‘’e probably can, Cap’n,’ says Mr Smith. Then quietly adds, ‘and if ’e misses, I won’t.’ He stands so close to the Captain that most of the men do not hear him.

  ‘Only if he misses the shot, Mr Smith,’ replies the Captain, equally quietly.

  Teuku works the lever, slides one of the big bullets into the chamber of his rifle, steps to the edge of the cliff and rests the end of the barrel on a low-slung tree branch. He squints into the sun.

  ‘Just like we practiced, Teuku,’ says Mr Smith. ‘And remember to allow for the wind and for aiming down ’ill.’

  In the distance, the colonel lowers his binoculars, but as he does so, they suddenly spiral out of his hands and into the air. His head snaps back and the whole front of his white uniform splatters red. He falls like a rag doll, and lies still, his arms splayed out, apparently quite dead. So shocked am I, not even the shot being fired right at my side has registered with me. Seconds later, the now all too familiar smell of gunpowder brings me back to my senses.

  The scene erupts like a bull ants’ nest. Men rush to the colonel’s aid or look about in panic, aiming their rifles randomly like wild men. Others scurry for cover, unsure where the shot has come from, not knowing whether there might be more.

  ‘Now, Mr Teuku Nyak King,’ asks the Captain, placing his hand on Teuku’s shoulder. ‘You have avenged your family and your village. How do you feel now?’

  ‘I feel nothing, Captain. Nothing. It had to be. The man is a butcher and had to be stopped, that is all.’

  ‘Well, you stopped him sure enough,’ says the Bosun, admiringly. ‘I doubt even Mr Smith could have made that shot.’

  Mr Smith looks sideways at him, pretending to be insulted.

  ‘Men,’ says the Captain, as we gather close to hear him. ‘Now we have no time to lose. None at all. We must get to the Dragon and away from here. Immediately. We get back, we unload in record time, and we set sail straight away. No delays.’

  ‘Captain,’ says Teuku. ‘Thank you, but I must stay. I cannot leave again. I’ll head back and join the rebels, if they will have me.’

  ‘I understand, Teuku,’ he replies. ‘I’ve been expecting this. They will have you. You can count on that. Especially when they learn what you have just done today.’

  Several men step forward to shake Teuku’s hand.

  ‘No fuss now.’ The Captain reaches into his pocket and empties it, taking out a handful of large gold coins, English sovereigns I think. A lot of money. He hands them to Teuku. ‘May your god go with you boy, and keep you safe until our paths cross again.’

  ‘Youse’ll need to take the long way back, through the jungle,’ says Mr Smith. ‘And keep well ’idden. Good luck, son.’

  A few minutes later, after Teuku has disappeared into the jungle, the Bosun nudges me. ‘I’d be more miserable than that, Red,’ he says. ‘The Dragon is one ship’s boy down now, so the other one will have to do twice as much work.’

  A coupl
e of men laugh, mostly at the look on my face, I suspect. But then they concentrate on getting back to the coast as quickly as possible. I feel sorry for the poor buffaloes being driven relentlessly and there are no rest stops on the return journey.

  CUTTING IT FINE

  Unfortunately, we are a few minutes too late in setting sail. We unload most of the bottles like men demented, and stow them away in the hold carefully. We have just returned to the wagons for the final half-dozen crates when Rowdy gasps.

  I look to where he points and see rank upon rank of blue and white uniforms. It looks like a whole regiment of Dutch soldiers is pouring down the slope towards us.

  ‘Leave the last boxes. Get back to the Dragon, now!’ yells the Captain.

  Suddenly, somehow, about ten soldiers, an advance party, are almost upon us, their rifles levelled as they come within firing distance, their bayonets fixed. I can see the expressions on their faces and sweat running down their cheeks.

  ‘English, surrender!’ yells one of them.

  Then we are running, racing frantically along the rickety old jetty to where the Dragon is moored, ready to sail, the sails hoisted and flapping.

  I duck instinctively at a sudden crash. A bullet whizzes past my ear. Seconds later, another just misses me. I cannot run any faster even if my life depends on it, and in this particular case, it most certainly does. Just one slip and a Dutch bayonet will skewer me. The Dragon pulls at her mooring cable, as all canvas flutters then strains against the breeze ready for us to leap aboard and cast off.

  Another crash sounds and Rowdy, running ahead of me, jerks and swears, but keeps moving, the back of his white shirt darkening with blood. He slows, staggering.

  I grab him under his armpit and pull him along as best I can but his weight pulls me down, and I stumble. What have I done? We are both going to get slaughtered.

  ‘I’ll take him!’ yells Captain Bowen, grabbing Rowdy. ‘Get on ahead, Red. Get on board! Now!’