The Smuggler's Curse

by Norman Jorgensen

  ‘Had enough?’ yells Captain Bowen. ‘Next it will be your boats. Then your houses, so help me!’

  ‘Enough!’ someone yells. The wreckers stand slowly, one at a time, dropping their guns and holding up their hands in surrender, utterly defeated.

  The Captain waves his hat. Out on the Dragon, through the gun smoke haze, we can see Bosun Stevenson at the helm. He waves back. Mr Smith, standing at the rail beside Long Tom, also lifts his hand and waves.

  In the shattered doorway, the magistrate, what is left of him, slumps over a pile of rubble. I stare dumbfounded. His head is missing, completely blown off. I can’t take my eyes from the ghastly sight, not quite believing what I am looking at. Blood pours from the top of his collar where his head should be. I look away. In the months since I joined the Dragon, I have seen all manner of death and destruction, and enough blood to fill Roebuck Bay, but I have never seen a man with his head blasted completely off. I wonder too, about myself. Only a few months ago I would have probably thrown up seeing a dreadful sight like that, but now I feel okay, just a little shocked, and even a quiet sense of satisfaction fills me. I feel a bit guilty at that.

  The wreckers must be a hard lot. Not one of them seems the least bit concerned that their local lawman lies dead, shattered and headless only yards away.

  ‘You all know who I am?’ asks the Captain when the wreckers gather at the gate, bewildered, bloodied and dazed by the sudden turn.

  The leader nods, sullenly. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, listen and listen well,’ says the Captain. ‘We are on our way from here, but be assured, if I ever hear of another ship coming to grief here, be it your fault, be it bad seamanship, or even an act of God, I don’t care. I will bring the Dragon back and I will level Cossack so that not even a single blade of grass is left alive. I am a man of my word and this is my solemn promise to you. Stick to fishing and you might live long, but one more wreck hereabouts and you all die. Believe me.’

  With that, the Captain turns and leads us towards the beach. I look back once or twice, but they just stand there staring, almost in disbelief, until the dinghy arrives and we are rowed back to our boat. Unbelievably, the gardener is still digging away as if nothing at all has happened.

  ‘Captain,’ I ask later. ‘That magistrate? Were you going to kill him if Mr Smith hadn’t shot his head off with a cannon?’

  ‘Heavens no, Red. Haven’t you noticed I hardly ever kill anybody?’

  ‘But Magistrate Wedgwood deserved it,’ I reply. ‘He led the wreckers and must have killed lots of sailors.’

  ‘Indeed. It’ll be good and warm where he’s heading. I’m just glad we helped him along on his way down there, just a little sooner than he might have wanted. He can roast his chestnuts over a hot fire for all eternity. Not that he’ll be able to find them without a head.’

  I nod happily. ‘And the other wreckers will be having sleepless nights every time there is a storm brewing, bringing ships close to the reef,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, they will,’ he agrees. ‘Though I was sorely tempted to let Mr Smith keep on blasting away all day and send them all to Hell. No one calls me a scurvy pirate. The nerve of them. Cheeky swine.

  HIGHWAY ROBBERY

  At sunrise five days later, the Captain and I are rowed ashore to a windswept, sandy beach, well out of sight of any coastal settlements. We make our way through sand hills covered with beach grass and pig-face and up to a sandy track about two hundred yards back from the water. We watch the dinghy head back to the Dragon and then start walking south along the narrow gap in the vegetation.

  ‘The Halfway House is a fair trek inland to the main road south. It’s a hotel where the coaches change horses,’ says the Captain, after he sees me looking about bewildered. There is absolutely nothing but low scrub ahead.

  ‘Halfway House? Halfway to where?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ve never thought about it. Nowhere, I’d say. Or halfway to Hell. There’s not a lot out here, is there?’

  I nod my head in agreement.

  A chilly, drizzly morning has me shivering. I turn my collar up to help keep the cold from seeping into my bones as we trudge along the road and then down the slope towards a grey timber building in the distance. The collar is of little use and I am soon aching from the cold. I am not accustomed to this sort of southern weather.

  When we finally arrive at Halfway House, a dusty-looking coach is standing ready in front of the hotel. A red Royal Mail symbol on its door has all but faded away. Four horses are snorting and stamping their hooves and pulling against the harnesses. Mist from their warm bodies rises in the morning air and the familiar smell of horseflesh, oiled leather harness and manure fills my nostrils.

  ‘Wait here, Red,’ says the Captain. ‘I’ll go and buy our fares.’

  I am grateful the Captain has paid for us to ride inside the coach, unlike the half-a-dozen men who have tickets to ride clinging to the outside roof. Several men are shivering before we even leave, and although it isn’t cold enough to freeze, it will be a seriously miserable ride for them.

  There are two ladies ready to climb aboard, so the Captain and I will have to share the inside of the coach.

  ‘Ma’am, if you would allow me to introduce myself,’ says the Captain, holding out his hand to the older woman wearing a pale yellow hat. ‘I am Captain James Bowen, of Ravenscroft, in Broome,’ he says, smiling widely.

  I see the woman’s eyes brighten considerably at the word ‘Captain.’ She too extends her hand. ‘Miss Jane Boston, of Mount Martin Station, and my ward, Miss Elizabeth Barnett.’

  ‘Delighted,’ he says. ‘And may I introduce Mr Red Read, my secretary.’

  The women both smile sweetly at me but do not seem that interested, after which the Captain helps them aboard while I hold the coach door open.

  ‘Settle in for a long, bumpy ride, Red,’ says the Captain, as I climb up a small metal step and sit on the hard horsehair seat beside him. ‘This stretch should take all day but will feel like a week. And in a few minutes, you will see why I prefer riding on water and not land.’

  The driver yells, snaps the brake off, and the groom leads the horses in a big wheel out onto the road, the coach jerking against the harnesses. Less than a minute later, the driver cracks his whip and the horses pick up a steady trot. The sound of their hooves striking the packed earth of the road is loud and relentless. After weeks at sea, I think I have become more used to the quieter sounds of the wind, the creak of the hull and the swish of the Dragon’s oak timbers sliding effortlessly through the water.

  My feet only just reach the floor. After a mile or so the Captain notices me squirming uncomfortably in my seat, as every pothole and every rock in the road sends a shock up through my bum.

  ‘Here, Red, this might help a little,’ he says. He places his leather satchel on the floor between us so I have a footrest. It does help, but by the time we stop to change horses, I can hardly walk. I notice too, the Captain stretching his legs and rubbing the seat of his pants.

  ‘Remind me, boy, never to do this again. I think I’d rather face a whole fleet of Chang Pao’s pirates than another hour of this infernal misery,’ he says as we climb back on board for the next leg of the journey. ‘My back will never be the same again, so help me.’

  In the afternoon, as the shadows of the spindly trees grow longer and darker across the road, and we pass the fifteen-mile marker carved into a stump at the road’s edge, a gunshot sounds. Someone on the roof curses and the horses whinny as the coach driver pulls them to a halt.

  ‘Stand and deliver!’ a voice shouts.

  ‘Surely he jests. A bushranger? In this day and age?’ says the Captain, with a pronounced sigh. He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘You only have to stand outside Fremantle Prison for a short while to see the fate of most road agents. Let me tell you, Red, a few years on the wrong end of a government pick and shovel is a good way to shorten your days.’

  We can see the man through the coach window. H
e sits astride a chestnut horse and is dressed not unlike the Captain, all in black and wearing high riding boots. His hat is pulled down low and a scarf wraps around his face so only his eyes show. Although he wears the clothes of a wealthy gentleman, they don’t seem to fit him at all. His coat is several sizes too big and his trousers are loose and baggy.

  ‘Captain Bowen, if I might ask …?’ enquires Miss Boston. She sounds extremely concerned, and Miss Barnett is rigid with fear.

  ‘Ladies, do not alarm yourselves,’ replies the Captain, reassuringly. ‘I’ve dealt with this sort of situation before. Red, down on the floor before he sees you.’

  I slide from the seat into the narrow space between us. I wonder how he can be so calm with an armed bandit only yards away. However, we have both been in far worse predicaments in recent weeks. Facing a lone robber has to be better than being slowly roasted alive by Chinese pirates. I realise I feel surprisingly calm, too.

  ‘In my bag, there are two loaded Colts, right at the top. The hammers just need cocking. You keep one, hand me the other. Stay hidden down there until you hear me say, “not my father’s gold watch”. Got that? That’ll be my signal.’

  I nod. ‘Your father’s gold watch.’

  ‘When I say it, I’ll distract him, and you pop your head up to the window and shoot the brigand’s horse. He’ll be so surprised that when the horse goes down, I’ll shoot him. My father’s gold watch. Not until. You won’t be able to miss.’

  Miss Boston looks even more shocked at that, covering her mouth with her fingers, suddenly wondering, no doubt, with what pair of desperate ruffians she shares a coach.

  The Captain tucks his pistol beneath his coat, swings open the door and steps down onto the coach’s step. As he does so, a chilly breeze sweeps inside.

  I can hear the other passengers climbing down from up on top as well, several of them cursing at their bad luck, using language most foul indeed. Miss Boston and Miss Barnett pretend not to hear though they do blush a little.

  The bandit’s horse will not stay still, snorting, twisting its head back and forward and trying to turn in a circle, unhappy with its rider and trying to unseat him. He struggles to keep the horse under control with only one hand on the reins, the other gripping his pistol.

  ‘Damn it, forget that plan Red,’ exclaims the Captain. ‘The man’s a fool.’ The Captain reaches back and slams the coach door. It crashes shut as loud as any gunshot. The horse startles and rears up, kicking its front legs into the air in panic. As it does so, the Captain leaps forward and grabs the robber’s ankle. With a cry of surprise, the rider topples sidewards off his horse, his other foot still caught in the stirrup. He is left dangling upside down, his head banging on the ground.

  Miss Barnett screams but Miss Boston remains calm, making soothing noises.

  The Captain grabs the horse’s reins before it becomes even more skittish and bolts. Hanging upside down helplessly, the bandit kicks and struggles, but it does him no good. In fact, I think he must have hurt himself as he groans in pain.

  ‘Well, thanks to you, sir, the judge will be earning his fee with this one, damn his evil soul,’ says a man in a thick brown coat. ‘Well done, sir.’

  The man leans forward and pulls the scarf from the bushranger’s face. I cannot believe it. He is a boy, younger than me, and completely terrified. He looks as if he is about to cry.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Captain Bowen exclaims quietly. ‘Not this.’ He sighs and his shoulders drop as if the weight of the world has just been dumped on them.

  AIDING AND ABETTING

  ‘Here, Red,’ says the Captain, handing me the reins before he untangles the boy’s foot from the stirrup and lowers him to the ground. He picks the boy up as if he is a bag of feathers, carries him over to the coach and sits him down, leaning his back up against the coach wheel.

  ‘Red, take his horse and tie it to the rear of the coach,’ he says. ‘Give it plenty of rope and be sure to tie up the stirrups so they don’t dangle.’

  ‘Sir,’ I reply. ‘I’ll …’ but a man interrupts me.

  ‘I knows youse,’ he says, pointing at the Captain. He has skin as dark as a sailor’s. ‘Youse are Bowen, the famous smugg …, er, sea captain. I seed you in the Smuggler’s Curse, I did, in Broome, only six months past it was.’ He turns to face the crowd of passengers, now all inspecting the half-unconscious boy. ‘This really is him, Black Bowen. Out of Broome.’

  The passengers look, curious. Most people seem to have heard of Black Bowen.

  ‘I am afraid you are mistaken, my good friend,’ the Captain says. ‘The name is Read. Red Read, as you will find on my coach ticket here.’ The Captain unfolds one of the receipts for the fare, which does, indeed, have my name written on it. He shows the sailor.

  I doubt he can read but he nods wisely and then touches his forelock. ‘Sorry to be bothering you, sir. I must be mistook.’

  ‘I can have fairly swore,’ he mutters as he climbs back on the coach and up to the top, ready for the final part of his cold journey.

  ‘Give me a hand here!’ calls the coach driver. ‘We’ll deliver this devil to the constables in Fremantle.’

  The driver ties the boy’s hands to the luggage rack. He sits awkwardly, shaking with cold, or maybe fear. We are all aware that for highway robbery only a few years ago he would have been in for a very short walk to a very sudden stop. Now, in these more modern and enlightened times, he is in for a very long holiday in a dark, dank cell in the infamous Fremantle Prison.

  A few minutes later, with a savage crack of his whip, the driver urges the horse team forward again, this time at a gallop. The coach jerks several times and we settle back in as comfortably, or as uncomfortably, as we can for the journey to Gingin and the next change for the horses.

  For the remainder of the passage, the Captain says barely a word. He stares broodingly out of the window, clearly not actually seeing the scrubby bushes and sand. In all the time I have known him, I do not think I ever saw the Captain so preoccupied. I wonder what bothers him so much.

  ‘Captain, will you be away from Mrs Bowen for considerable time this journey?’ asks Miss Boston. She seems more than impressed with the Captain and apparently wants to get to know him better.

  ‘I’ve been travelling for some time,’ he replies, giving nothing away.

  She tries opening several conversations with him, but he is completely withdrawn. Even mentioning that her two brothers are senior naval men does not draw the Captain from his preoccupation. She is evidently well born, just like Captain Bowen though he spends much of his time in hotels and bawdy houses consorting with sailors, rogues and vagabonds. I suspect Miss Boston’s chastity is never going to be in any danger as far as the Captain is concerned.

  ‘The Lobster!’ yells the driver as the coach slows.

  ‘Not too much longer now,’ announces Miss Boston.

  We stop outside the Lobster Hotel, a white building at the top of a sand hill. It needs a good clean up. The Captain opens the coach door and steps out. ‘If you will excuse me, Miss Barnett, Miss Boston,’ he says as he extends his arm for the ladies to be helped down the coach step. ‘I will re-join you inside in a few moments.’

  ‘Surely, Captain Bowen,’ replies Miss Boston, her hopes suddenly revived.

  ‘Red,’ he says after the passengers have all entered the hotel and the groom is leading the tired horses to the stable. ‘Help me down with the boy.’

  The lad is awake but still half out of his mind with fear, and perhaps cold, as he shivers uncontrollably. The Captain cuts away the ropes from the boy’s wrists with one slice of his sharp black blade.

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’ demands the Captain.

  ‘Ar-Ar-Archie. Archie Simmons, sir,’ he says, so quietly we can hardly hear him.

  ‘Archie Simmons,’ says the Captain. ‘In ten minutes I am going to fire my pistol. Before then, I suggest you get as far away from here as possible. Through the bush and north along the coast until you reach home.
Don’t stop, don’t slow down. Someone might come after you, but you are young and should be able to outrun them with a head start. Go now, and when you do get home, find a less deadly profession. Highway robbery will only end badly, maybe even at the end of a hangman’s rope. Believe me, boy, I know.’

  The boy nods in relief and does not need a second telling. He jumps from the roof of the coach in one leap, undoes his horse, and swings into the saddle barely using the stirrups. The horse bolts away like a hare at the greyhound racing.

  I look at the Captain in astonishment. ‘Why did you do that?’ I ask.

  ‘Professional courtesy, I suppose, Red. Besides, you know what the law of the land is like. Some magistrate or other would probably have jailed the little waif for twenty years. It doesn’t seem right. It would have been like letting them jail you.’

  ‘I hope that never happens,’ I reply.

  ‘You’ll be fine as long as I’m about,’ he continues. ‘I won’t let them jail you. I promise.’

  I am not sure how to reply. I tend to feel reasonably safe knowing the Captain is close by, but it is sure a good feeling to have his reassurance.

  ‘Even if I have to shoot you first myself to stop them,’ he adds.

  Ten minutes later, he fires his pistol into the air, scaring me half to death. ‘Stop!’ he yells.

  Several men rush out from the Lobster’s front door.

  ‘The boy. He’s escaped!’ exclaims the Captain, sounding surprised. ‘He went that way,’ pointing in precisely the opposite direction to where the boy fled.

  FREMANTLE

  ‘Ah, civilisation,’ announces the Captain, taking a deep breath.

  I look out of the window, but nothing very much seems to have changed. The bush has thinned out a little, a paddock is dotted with dusty sheep, and a herd of cows stands unmoving and uninterested in us passing. I do notice a faint smell on the wind, though.