The Wreckers' Revenge by Norman Jorgensen

Author:Norman Jorgensen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fremantle Press
Published: 2019-07-17T16:00:00+00:00

We row out to the newer lugger, the one the Captain wants to take, and no one challenges us even when we draw close. I see on the stern in bright new signwriting it is called Tartar. Appropriate, I think, in more ways than one. The real Cossacks from Russia were Tartars, and this bunch have been behaving like lawless, raiding Tartar warriors.

As we stop rowing and drift up to the boat’s ladder, a young crewman peers over the side. He looks bored until he sees a dinghy full of armed strangers just below him pointing guns up at him. He immediately puts his hands in the air. ‘I … I surrender!’ he calls.

‘You can swim?’ asks the Captain.

The boy nods, obviously terrified and seeming unsure of what is going on. I suspect I would be equally frightened in the same situation. No, I know I would be. I’d be terrified.

‘Then I suggest you swim to that island over there.’ The Captain points to the one where we set the first lugger adrift last week. The signal fire is still smoking. ‘You’ll find some shipmates holed up there.’

‘I hope you like rat,’ says Sam Chi. ‘Boiled, baked, stewed, fried, smoked or raw.’

‘Right now would be a good time,’ continues the Captain.

The boy doesn’t need telling twice. He immediately jumps overboard, hits the sea with a splash and swims away like he has a tiger shark after him.

We row over to the other lugger soon after. It is called the Charlotte, and is much older and well worn. It feels almost like a ghost ship as we climb the ladder and step warily aboard. The jib flaps lazily in the slight breeze, while the current tugs at the anchor. The boat has the whiff of decay about it and the typical faint stink of rancid pearl meat. Other than the usual creaks and groans of a seagoing vessel, it is ominously silent.

Mr Smith and Rowdy have their guns ready just in case anyone comes bursting up from below. No one does, though. They push open the hatch cover and jump back, ready to shoot, but still, there is no response. Not even a scurrying rat.

‘The boat is deserted, Captain,’ says Mr Smith. ‘Looks like they all went ashore.’

Bosun Stevenson shakes his head, mystified. ‘What sort of novices are these lunatics? That anchor’s going to drag sometime soon in this current. Then they’ll be laughing on the other sides of their faces as their boat sails off without them.’

‘Exactly as is going to happen now,’ says the Captain. ‘How about you bring this one back to Broome? Red can be the helmsman. By the time we get back, he’ll know every creak, groan and whisper of the four winds. Give him a great deal of experience. Rowdy and Briggs can join you too. The four of you should have no trouble. Not even from the ever-vigilant Lieutenant Collins and Her Majesty’s Customs, what with no cargo for them to poke about in.’

What did he say? Me as the helmsman? Really? I like the sound of that.

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