The Smuggler's Curse (10 page)

‘Sorry, Captain,' says Sam Chi. ‘But there isn't anything any which way we walked. Not a living soul. No houses, no rice paddies, nothing growing. Just jungle and grassland. And more jungle.' He sits down with a long sigh, clearly worn out. ‘There aren't even any decent edible weeds.'

‘I hope it won't come to us eating weeds,' says the Captain, sounding more hopeful than most of us feel. ‘No matter. Tomorrow we'll try up the coast. We'll take the dinghy. On the chart, there's a village about half a day away. We'll chance our luck there.'

‘Will the people sell us food? Us being foreign?' I ask Mr Smith.

‘There'll not be a problem, just as long as they don't think we's Dutch. Besides, there's nothin' foreign about
gold coin. And if the gold fails — and it never do — there's always them new rifles. Good persuaders they'll be, I wager.'

At dawn the next morning, after a breakfast of monkey stew, the most disgusting meal I think I have ever eaten, we set out. Bosun Stevenson has the helm, and the Captain sits forward on the front thwart while six of us row. We have stowed a box of the new rifles, all loaded and ready to fire.

With the wind blowing us along the coast, the rowing is much less strenuous than the day we hauled the Dragon into the inlet, but even so I soon have a sweat up.

‘Take a break, men,' orders Bosun Stevenson.

I lean forward on my oar, raising it up to stop it dragging in the water and perhaps tangling with the oar of Rowdy, the man in front of me. I can just imagine his reaction if I did that.

To port, right at the base of a small cliff, are the remains of what may have been a mission settlement. Much of the cliff has eroded so that parts of the white weatherboard church have crumbled and fallen into the sea. A small jetty has collapsed as well with just a few black barnacleencrusted pylons showing above the water. The belltower still stands, with huge dark holes, like the eyes of a blind
beggar. I don't know why the missionaries bother trying to convert the people in these parts. They seem perfectly happy with their own religion.

An hour later, we come to a spit of land that protrudes out into the sea. It is mostly pale, orange coloured rock washed smooth by the waves, with a few small palm trees growing further back beyond the high water line. Rings of darker tidemarks colour the stones closest to the water and small crabs scurry across the surface.

Ahead is a cove lined with woven coconut-fibre huts and bamboo houses on rickety stilts over the water. Waves wash up under them. Washing hangs from bamboo poles and flutters wildly in the warm wind. Beyond the houses, a small town square faces onto the waterfront, and on the other three sides, large corrugated iron warehouses fill the space. On the far side of the bay, I can see a decent sized jetty still under construction. A steam pile driver sits inactive and no ships are tied to the pylons.

Inland, the pyramidal roof of a mosque surrounded by an extensive walled courtyard stands out. Next to that, another substantial building has a sign on its roof reading Mariner Tabac Export. The aromatic smell of harvested tobacco leaf pervades the town.

Beyond the new buildings yet another long building,
this one with many windows, stands apart from the others. It has a military feel to it, all neat and clean and with a space big enough for a parade ground. Whitewashed rocks mark out pathways and the Dutch flag flies aloft from a flagpole at the far end.

‘Where did all this building work come from?' says the Captain surprised. ‘Last time we sailed this coast this was just a tiny fishing village off in the distance. Now it looks like a Dutch garrison and port.'

As we draw closer the usual poo-stink of civilisation reaches us. The hot afternoon has emptied the streets of people. The smoke from cooking fires spirals upwards into the sky from the houses and is quickly blown away. Some scrawny long-legged chooks peck the ground and squabble with each other, but everything else is silent.

‘Now that's rubbing salt in the wounds,' groans Mr Cord, rubbing his stomach as someone's lunch of cabbage and onions wafts over us. It is not the spicy smell of local Sumatran food, but that of Europeans — Dutchmen.

‘Bosun Stevenson,' says the Captain. ‘Can you see somewhere quiet to land? No need to scare the locals by arriving armed and dangerous on their front door, right at midday when most people are taking it easy. Fortunate timing actually. We can be in and out of here before anyone wakes up and even notices.'

‘Cap'n,' says Mr Smith. ‘The Dutch don't take siestas I seems to remember.'

‘You are right, Mr Smith. We'll need to be doubly careful.'

‘Captain,' says Bosun Stevenson. ‘That stand of coconut palms ahead there, at the water's edge would be a good spot. The bottom looks clear, and the trees will afford some shade.'

The Captain agrees.

The Bosun adjusts the tiller slightly. ‘Starboard side, half a stroke. Port side, ship oars.'

We do as he calls, and the dinghy glides to a halt on the sand, so the Captain is able to step ashore from the bow without getting his boots wet.

‘Thank you Bosun Stevenson, and well done as usual,' he says. ‘Stay and guard the dinghy while the rest of us go and forage in the town. Take only pistols, men, and keep them hidden as much as possible. Remember, we want to look like regular ship's crew, not a gang of foreign pirates coming to plunder. That could be a barracks, so if you see a uniform, hide. We don't need a repeat of last time we were in these climes. Keep your wits about you.'

‘Those what has wits,' says the Bosun, quietly.

‘As before, Mr Smith,' continues the Captain. ‘You and Mr Cord follow behind and watch our backs.'

Something about the town gives me the creeps. The native buildings are mostly old and shabby and built on stilts, with raised wooden walkways connecting them. The shutters and doors are all closed against the sun. The streets seem to creak like a sailing ship as the wind whistles around the bamboo huts and along narrow alleyways. Open drains full of rubbish run down the middle of the muddy streets.

Fishermen's discarded nets and pots and ropes and every kind of jetsam are strewn about the waterfront. Fishing boats bob at their moorings. Behind the warehouses, a maze of narrow lanes and passages and more open drains and walkways wiggle back up the hill towards the mosque.

At the corner where two warehouses meet and form a
square, a ragged canvas awning hangs from four poles. Three prisoners dressed in rags and parts of uniform sprawl beneath it in the shade, all asleep. None wear boots and their ankles have been chained to bolts in the wall. Nearby, in front of a pockmarked section of a wall, a single, red-stained pole stands menacingly.

Can that be a firing squad pole? What do they have around the next corner, an armed welcoming committee? I feel even more nervous than usual. I have every reason to be. We are a tiny bunch of lightly armed foreigners in what looks to be a new garrison town in a Dutch colony during a war.

Within ten minutes, we find bread by following our noses. The smell of freshly cooked loaves is particularly delicious considering how ravenously hungry we all are.

Mr Smith bangs heavily on the door with the butt of his Colt.

A sweating local man peers out. He wipes his hands on his dirty apron. ‘Eh?' he shouts. When the Captain takes several shiny coins from his pocket and places them on the baker's palm, his frown turns to a reluctant smile. He immediately swings the door open wider and begins loading flour sacks with bread.

‘Boy,' orders the Captain. ‘Have a scout down that street and see if you can find someone who'll sell us
some meat. Not monkey mind you. I still can't get the damn taste out of my mouth.'

I head outside, but regrettably, I soon find more than meat. I have gone less than a hundred paces when a Dutch soldier steps from a doorway right into my path. I stop in surprise. He holds a rifle with the longest silver bayonet attached, pointed directly at my chest. Startled, I find myself, within seconds, surrounded by a mass of blue and white uniforms.

‘I'm a civilian!' I protest. ‘A sailor.' When that does not work, I try, ‘I'm a schoolboy.' However, the soldiers just urge me back along the street without a word, pointing their rifles.

‘Oh, not youse too,' says Mr Smith, quietly. He stands in the laneway with his hands tied in front of him and a soldier pointing a rifle at his head.

As the Captain steps into the street from the bread house, his pistol is wrenched from his grip. There is no point struggling as there are just too many soldiers.

Like a herd of sheep, we are shepherded along the alleyways to a square near the boat harbour and up to the wall of a warehouse.

With the stories Teuku had told me about the Dutch, I wonder if they are about to shoot us there and then against the wall.

‘Sit!' orders a soldier instead.

An hour or more passes, though it feels like much longer with the sun beating down on us. We can hear muffled screams somewhere nearby. It is a truly terrifying noise, like someone in complete agony. The crew glance at each other uneasily. What is happening? What horrible fate awaits us? Are we to be next?

Mr Smith frowns. ‘That don't sound too good. Not good at all.'

The soldiers are restless and appear to be waiting for someone or something. They pace up and down but never take their eyes from us. Eventually, a young lieutenant carrying a bunch of keys arrives. He is red in the face, his uniform is buttoned up incorrectly, his hat is missing and his braces hang below his tunic. Maybe he had been having one of those siestas that the Dutch aren't supposed to have.

The young lieutenant rattles the lock open and the soldiers force us into the pitch black of the tin warehouse with the point of their bayonets.

‘What's that pong?' asks Briggs, looking shocked.

As Mr Smith, the last man goes in, the soldier hands him a bucket. ‘Water,' he says. The door is bolted behind us with a final, ominous clang.

‘I'll wager this be not 'ow youse planned for the day
to go, Cap'n,' says Mr Smith, with a sigh.

‘Indeed not, Mr Smith. Any suggestions on how we might improve it?'

‘I'm thinkin' a huge roast of fresh spring lamb with mint sauce, just like my old ma used to cook, would finish the day off better.'

‘I was thinking more along the lines of suggestions on how we get out of this rather smelly, hot tin box before they shoot us all.'

‘Sorry, Cap'n. Just tryin' to …' Mr Smith's voice trails away, embarrassed.

It takes some while to become accustomed to the gloom and the stench and the baking heat radiating from the tin walls. The warehouse must have been used for drying fish or shark fin or something similar in the recent past as the strong smell lingers. Light from rust holes in the roof high above casts patterns on the floor. I watch as an enormous black rat scurries into a pile of rags in the far corner. A soft groan comes from the clothes, and a tattooed arm raises slowly and drops suddenly.

‘It's Stevenson,' cries Mr Smith in surprise. ‘They've gone and captured 'im as well.'

Bosun Stevenson lies spread-eagled on his back, shivering, with his head turned away from the wall. Even in the dim light, it is obvious that he has been severely beaten. Both his eyes are bruised and swollen. His nose
is caked in dried blood, as are the edges of his mouth. Because his shirt has been half torn off, we can see deep, dark bruises and red welts on much of his body.

‘Captain, look!' says Mr Smith, his voice filled with alarm. He points at the Bosun's feet. They are a swollen mess of burnt and blistered skin. Vivid red and blackish stripes crisscross the soles of his feet. ‘Them Dutchies have gone and tortured him, they have … with hot irons. They've branded his feet like a calf 'ide. That must have been the screams we 'eard. No wonder.'

The Captain kneels and cups Bosun Stevenson's head in his hands, lifting him gently. ‘Harry, my dear friend, what they have done to you?' he whispers.

The Captain takes off his sweat scarf, folds it and carefully places it under Bosun Stevenson's head. Though barely conscious, the poor man tries to nod in gratitude. There is little else we can do for him as we have no medicine or food, only the bucket of rank water.

The Captain holds Bosun Stevenson's hand and sits in brooding silence. Occasionally, Mr Smith pours a little water on Bosun Stevenson's burnt feet. The rest of us sit along the wall, waiting for something to happen.

The sound of boots in unison echo on the path outside. The bolt lifts and the door creaks open. It is almost dark outside. A senior officer and two guards step in
and stand in the gloom, their faces barely visible in the shadows. The guards' white uniform pants are grubby, and their boots are scuffed and worn. The officer, unlike the lieutenant, though, is impeccably dressed, his boots polished, his tunic buttons shiny and done up to his neck. He obviously has a lackey to dress him and do all his work.

‘Captain Bowen,' sneers the officer.

The Captain rises from where he sits on the floor beside poor Bosun Stevenson. He holds himself straight and then bows slightly, as befitting an officer meeting another of his class.

‘Commandant Vetter at your service,' continues the officer, his English perfect and with hardly a trace of an accent. ‘Your reputation is well known along this coast, Captain, as indeed are your recent exploits.'

‘Commandant Vetter, you are too kind,' he says. ‘But you must be misinformed. I am a humble sea trader, and one who needs to be about his business. As I'm sure you are aware in these modern times, commerce waits for no man.'

‘It seems our business interests have crossed, sir. I have been expecting to intercept a cargo from one of your countrymen, Captain Josiah Sims. It seems that Captain Sims and his crew are missing and his cargo has gone
astray. A consignment of guns.'