The next night, we sit in a circle around the fire again, watching it make patterns and cast flickering shadows, as the pile of coconut husks burn and crackle. No one says much. We are all too full, I suspect, and getting sleepy.
The Captain is unusually quiet, apparently deep in thought. Eventually, he speaks. ‘My friend William …’
‘Would that be your friend William Shakespeare?’ I ask cheekily, ‘the one who died three hundred years ago?’
‘It was only two hundred and eighty-two years ago, you insolent rapscallion. Paltry loon of a boy,’ he laughs.
Some of the others laugh too.
‘And before I was so rudely interrupted, this fire is giving me an idea.’ He pauses, then waits, so we all lean forward and listen. ‘In Mr William Shakespeare’s time, when he was writing plays and sonnets for Good Queen Bess, England came under attack by the Spanish. They sent a massive armada of ships to invade the country. The British sea captains of the day — Francis Drake, John Hawkins and Martin Frobisher — set out to engage the armada in a mighty battle, but then, unexpectedly, they withdrew, leaving eight deserted ships drifting in the breeze. Before the crews abandoned them, however, they had filled the ships with tar, pitch, brimstone and gunpowder and set them alight. They drifted up against the Spanish galleons and, before the Dons knew it, wooosh, bang and blistering bedlam, the Spanish ships were on fire. Old dry timbers, tar and canvas and a cargo of gunpowder and they went up like fat heretics being burned at the stake.’
I look about. In the firelight, I can see the men’s faces as the Captain’s plan slowly dawns on them. Several have wicked smiles on their faces.
‘But where are we gunna get a fireship, Captain?’ asks Mr Smith.
‘We make one. A fire raft. Mr Smith, Red, how about in the morning you start collecting up those kero drums that are scattered all over the place.’
I nod and smile, guessing his plan.
He continues, ‘Tie about a dozen drums together and make a raft. In fact, make half a dozen rafts. There are more than enough drums. We load the rafts up with everything that will burn fiercely, or explode, and when the wind is right …’ His voice trails off leaving us all to imagine what might happen to any Cossack lugger that dared sail in the lagoon.
‘Any questions?’ asks the Captain.
‘Er, what’s a sonnet?’ asks Briggs.
‘Gentlemen,’ says Bosun Stevenson, ‘my old war wound is playing up, and it’s not usually wrong. I think we are in for a right blow tonight. A tropical storm very soon.’
I look up at the sky, but the stars are hidden by clouds and the moon has an eerie glow as darker, fast-moving clouds pass over it.
‘We’ll soon see how good our roof repairs are, won’t we?’ he continues, getting to his feet.
As the Bosun says it, a huge raindrop splatters on my upturned face. Instantly, another hits me, and before we can even leap to our feet and race for the bunkhouse, the sky empties a massive bucket of water on our heads. As we run, the wind picks up and, almost unbelievably, within five minutes the most savage storm imaginable is lashing our island. Waves crash against the reef and the rain belts down like bullets, hitting the tin roof of the bunkhouse with all the noise of a brass band tuning up.
The roof still leaks, but only in a few places now, so it is easy to avoid the rainwater. I huddle on my bare iron bed frame in a corner as far from the door as possible. When I wake, it is weak daylight, soon after dawn I suspect, but the rain continues as heavy as the previous night.
Sam Chi has started a cooking fire in a shallow trench on the sand floor in the middle of the building, and I can hear and smell sizzling pork fat coming from a grill made of a sheet of corrugated roofing iron.
‘Breakfast, paltry loon,’ Sam calls when he sees me stir.
Slowly, the men wake, coughing, farting and grumbling as usual to welcome the new day. They gather around the warmth of the fire as the storm has cooled everything down considerably.
‘It’s easing off, Red,’ says Mr Smith, glancing out the open doorway. ‘We can get on collecting up them empty drums and get them fire rafts built. There’s no way of knowing when the wreckers will arrive, so we’d better be ready as soon as possible. If you find any full drums, bring ’em along as well. I can put the kero to good use.’
It takes us all day to collect the drums and carry them down to the beach at the centre of the bay, just above the high tide mark under a jagged limestone overhang.
The next day, Mr Smith and I collect dried coconut palm branches that have fallen at the jungle’s edge. When we have enough to make a thick bed of leaves on each raft, we set about collecting coconuts — the bigger, the better. The beach and jungle almost sink under the weight of thousands of them, so it is a quicker task.
‘Right,’ says Mr Smith, when we have a small mountain piled up, ‘use your knife and dig a ’ole in the top of each coconut, then pour in the kerosene. Seal the ’ole with rolled-up leaves to form a plug and load ’em aboard.’ He smiles, obviously satisfied that our efforts will pay off. ‘This is going to teach ’em to mess with Black Bowen and the crew of the Dragon.’
I look over to the reef. I can’t believe it. The ship has completely disappeared beneath the sea, slipping back into the depths. Not even the stumps of the masts still show. It is almost as if the Black Dragon never existed. I sigh. Not only was the Dragon the most beautiful vessel I had ever seen, it felt like it was my own personal property. I know it wasn’t really, but I still feel a dark sense of loss overwhelm me.
‘I know, Red,’ says Mr Smith, quietly, as he sees me look to the empty reef.
‘And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war. All hot and bleeding will we offer them.’
I hadn’t heard Captain Bowen approach along the sand. As I turn, he smiles. I wonder how he manages to have a Shakespeare quote for just about every situation.
‘Henry the Fourth, part one.’
I nod and wipe sand and kerosene from my hands on my pants.
‘Good job, men,’ he says, sizing up each raft with a critical eye. ‘Sir Francis Drake would have been proud of you.’
The rafts are not pretty, with each battered drum a different shade of rust tied together with whatever we could find, and with brown palm leaves spread all over them, but the Captain seems more than satisfied.
He sniffs the air. ‘Kerosene-filled coconuts? Now that seems like a most ingenious idea, Mr Smith,’ he says. ‘They should burn like the blue blazes.’ I notice he doesn’t mention the Dragon.
‘They should go off like fireworks, Captain,’ Mr Smith answers, proudly. ‘We just ’ave to be sure those scoundrels sail into the lagoon, eh?’
‘Oh, they will, Mr Smith, they will. We’ll make sure they do. We won’t even need to entice them in. They have the scent of gold in their noses. They won’t be able to wait to get ashore. They won’t come all at once though. They’ll come one at a time, testing our defences. And we’ll pick them off one at a time. We need to save one lugger, though. One to sail home in.’
Seconds later, Rowdy comes towards us holding the Captain’s binoculars.
‘Cap’n,’ he says, ‘the single lugger is still out there. I sees the glint of a telescope every so often watching us, but they’re just sittin’ ’n’ waitin’. Bow into the breeze and not movin’, so maybe they have a anchor out.’
‘That must be unpleasant for ’em,’ says Mr Smith, ‘bobbing about on the same spot day after day, just waitin’.’
‘Some of the crew have just waded ashore to that small island there, that one over to the right,’ Rowdy continues.
We can see three more small islands nearby, though they are all at least a mile or more away. Like ours, they seem to be nothing more than coral atolls of white sand beaches and palms.
Later in the day, smoke from a campfire rises from the island, and it is kept smoking, apparently as a signal for the wrecker fleet. They must be expecting them to arrive soon.