We have been sailing north for a week, and I have been recovering my strength and my enthusiasm and feel much better. I spend some time on the wheel each day, and the Captain also sends me aloft as I still have the keenest eyes, but there is nothing to see. The Indian Ocean in these parts is completely deserted. Every day is the same with the clear, pale blue sky and endless deep, dark-blue water and white waves. The wind is keen, so we stay reasonably cool even though with every hour we sail closer towards the equator.
I sit on deck leaning against the mast having just finished resplicing the frayed end of a jib sheet when Anna arrives and sits beside me, carefully tucking her white skirt beneath her.
‘Does your mother know you are up here?’ I ask. ‘She doesn’t seem that keen on me.’
‘Oh, don’t take it personally,’ she replies, her eyes smiling, ‘she doesn’t like me talking to any boys. She likes to think I’m still a little girl. She forgets I’ll soon be as old as Juliet.’
‘What? Juliet from Romeo and Juliet? I ask. ‘Have you been talking to the Captain?’
‘He’s been reciting to Mother and me some evenings after dinner. I think he is pleased to have an audience as the crew don’t seem to appreciate his Shakespeare.’
‘I have noticed.’
‘Tell me, Red, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be in school?’ she continues.
‘I was in school,’ I reply. ‘Christian Brothers in Perth, but I had to leave, so I’m here with Captain Bowen, adventuring. We are treasure hunting.’ I am not going to tell Anna I was expelled for beating a teacher half to death. What sort of heartless brute would she think I am if I did that? That would probably be enough to scare any girl away.
‘But why treasure hunting?’ she replies. ‘Didn’t Sam Chi say you were rich?’
‘Things just seem to happen. Life’s like that with Captain Bowen,’ I say.
‘I can imagine. He’s … very dashing,’ she says.
If Anna were to find out about even half the stuff I have got up to since I joined dashing Captain Bowen’s Black Dragon she would be so shocked.
‘Mr Smith told me about you defending the little boy at school and getting arrested. And all about you in Sumatra. Is it true you were nearly hanged?’
I shrug as if it is no big deal.
‘I think Mr Smith really does like you in spite of wanting to toss you overboard,’ she says.
‘He does, and I like him,’ I reply. ‘He looks out for me and treats me a bit like a son. Like the Captain does.’
‘I haven’t got a father. He died before we went to Siam,’ she says. ‘That’s why we went. So mother could earn money as a teacher of English.’
I look at her, now even more interested. ‘Siam?’ Siam sounds as exotic as Sumatra, though I don’t suppose they have headhunters there. I know they do have elephants and use them in battle. That would be worth seeing. That would be really worth seeing.
‘Mother was teaching in Bangkok. At the palace. She teaches me too, so I don’t go to school. I’d like to, though. I miss other people my own age,’ she says rather wistfully, ‘Mother says I can talk to you, but if you try to take any liberties, at all, I am to slap your face as hard as I can.’
I sit speechless for a moment, trying to imagine what sort of liberties Anna might mean. While I am trying to think up some to take, the shadow of Captain Bowen falls over me.
‘I am sorry to interrupt, but there looks to be a sail on the horizon. Anna, if you can spare Master Read for a short while, I need him at the top of the mast.’ He bends forward and hands me his binoculars. ‘As quick as you can, sir. Nor’, nor’-west, and moving this way like the clappers.’
It takes me only seconds to reach the top. ‘Captain!’ I yell down at the deck. ‘Two masted with a funnel. Dozen crew on deck. Ten to twelve knots, directly this way. Low in the water, so heavy cargo. She’s flying an American flag.’
‘American? Out here? Is she a whaler? Any try-pots on deck? Any cannons?’ he cries back, cupping his hands around his mouth.
‘Yes, two big cauldrons and lots of barrels and one funny-looking cannon on the bow. It could be a harpoon.’
‘You can come down now. Up again in half an hour,’ he yells back.
I slide down and stand where the Captain, the Bosun and Mr Smith gather at the stern around the wheel. The Bosun is still frail but likes to take his turn at the helm.
‘A whaler?’ he says, sounding puzzled. ‘These days? The Yanks out of Nantucket pretty well fished out all the whales in the Indian Ocean years ago. He’s hopeful. They are usually found down Antarctica way these days.’
‘Or he knows something we don’t,’ says Mr Smith.
‘Maybe they are heading south,’ suggests the Bosun. ‘Or maybe you’re right, they are up to no good.’
‘The funnel means she is steam-powered,’ says the Captain, ‘so she can manoeuvre around the whales, then use that powered harpoon on the bow. It takes all the danger out of it. The whales don’t stand a chance. Not like in the old days, when it was hand harpoons from open rowboats.’
‘Indeed,’ nods the Bosun. ‘In the old days when the whales were first harpooned, they took off at great speed dragging the boat along. We used to call it the Nantucket sleigh ride. And it sure felt like the ride of your life, and then some.’
‘ … or death,’ adds Mr Smith, with a smile.
‘Yes,’ agrees the Bosun, ‘it was fun until the whale decided to dive to the bottom of the sea, taking you with him.’ The Bosun grimaces at the thought of it. ‘I lost a good few shipmates that way.’
‘You were on a whaler, Bosun?’ I ask, incredulously. He had never mentioned that in the past.
‘I’ve served on most everything that has floated, Red,’ he laughs, ‘and a few that haven’t. Like your first command.’ Everyone laughs at my wounded expression.
‘We wait for ’em, Captain?’ asks Mr Smith.
‘A rough old lot, whalers,’ says the Bosun. ‘The hardest men you’ll ever come across. And nobody dare fall overboard. Sharks follow whaling ships like bees to a honeypot, though they spit out the whalers. Too horrible by half.’
‘We’ll meet them,’ decides the Captain. ‘There are a few rifles and pistols below. We’ll bring them up on deck but put them out of sight, just in case. You can never be too careful.’
It takes a few hours for the whaler to come alongside, with a gap of about a hundred yards between us. The smell that wafts over from the whaling ship is enough to stun a dead elephant.
The lifeboat on the whaler is lowered, and four men row it across, while the skipper stands in the bow like he is General George Washington off to fight the British army. Unlike Mr Washington’s coloured army uniform though, he is dressed in a dark-brown, grubby-looking raincoat that has an oily shine to it. As he and his men get closer, I notice the men smell as bad as their ship, and they are all armed, with pistols tucked into their belts.
‘Mr Smith, Sam Chi,’ says the Captain, quietly. It is not a command or a question, but Mr Smith knows exactly what to do. He makes his way towards the bow where he had placed a Winchester repeating rifle a short time before. Sam also takes a step back and moves behind the main mast. I see that he holds a pistol behind his back.
The whaling skipper is first up the ladder. He is larger than I first thought, even taller than Captain Bowen, but he is fatter and broad across the shoulders with such a thick neck that he reminds me of a prize bull. His coat sleeves are rolled up revealing a mess of tattoos and ancient scars on his big arms, and he holds a short, fat cigar between yellow teeth.
His four crewmen follow. They look scruffy and mean, but then I suppose our crew does as well, after all the months we spent marooned.
The skipper extends a huge hand to the Captain. ‘Captain Josia Peabody, master of the Minerva, out of New Bedford, and this is my first officer, Nate Sharman.’ He nods towards his crew, and I assume Nate is the man with an evil-looking scar running from his right eye to his mouth. He shrugs.
‘Bowen. Heading home to Australia,’ says the Captain.
I can feel the tension between them as the two men size each other up. Peabody’s eyes dart about, taking in every detail of us and our boat.
‘So what’s a pearling lugger doing all the way out here?’ he asks.
‘We were shipwrecked,’ replies the Captain, ‘and found this tub to get us home.’
‘No cargo then?’ he asks.
‘No cargo, no pearls, no shell, nothing of value. We barely escaped with our lives,’ replies Captain Bowen.
He is very cautious, which is not like our captain, but then the Minerva probably carries more than a dozen men who will have all sorts of weapons. There is no real effective law out at sea. They could kill us all, just for the fun of it, toss our bodies overboard, and no one would have any idea. Unlike the Black Dragon in a similar situation, we cannot fight back or outrun or outmanoeuvre anyone on a lugger like this one.
‘So nothing to trade?’ asks Peabody.
‘Nothing, Captain,’ replies Captain Bowen. ‘Just the time of day.’
‘Now that is a pity,’ says Peabody. ‘I’m sorely disappointed.’ He hoicks up a wad of phlegm and spits it on the deck.
He looks about again and this time notices Anna and Mrs Crawford standing near the mast. A sinister smile slowly forms on his face. He takes a few steps and places his hand on Anna’s shoulder. She pulls back, startled.
‘So Bowen, nothing to trade, eh? What about these two doxies here? What will you take for the women? Comely sorts. I have US dollars. A hundred each?’
Someone behind me swears. It could be any of our crew. I dare not turn away and look. Peabody has made a mistake. A very big mistake. We all know what our Captain is like. This is about to turn nasty. I am convinced of it. Seconds later, the same person behind me gasps in surprise at the sound of a metallic click.
I stand still, shocked. This is not what I expected at all. It is not Captain Bowen, but Anna. She has a small, silver, pearl-handled pistol in her hand. In an instant, she lifts it up to Peabody’s face, the barrel of her gun sitting on his cheek, wrinkling the skin just under his left eye. Her hand doesn’t shake in the slightest.
Startled, he lifts his hand to knock Anna’s arm away, but luckily for him, he hesitates, as there is something about her expression. Her eyes squint slightly, and the sides of her mouth turn up in a satisfied smile as if she is going to enjoy what is about to happen next.
Peabody just frowns in confusion, evidently not quite believing his predicament. You can tell he is used to being in charge, and suddenly, now, he is helpless and seconds away from a messy death.
‘It’s loaded,’ Anna hisses slowly and quietly, ‘and I’ll blow your brains out, all over this deck, as certain as the day is long.’
Astonishingly, Anna sounds just like Captain Bowen in a tight fix — soft yet absolutely menacing. Captain Peabody is so shocked he is speechless.
To my further amazement, Mrs Crawford also has an identical silver pistol. Her arm is extended, and the gun points directly at First Officer Sharman’s heart. The distance is short so she won’t miss, no matter how bad a shot she is. This is the last outcome any of us expects.
As I reach for the pistol tucked in my belt behind my back, I hear another click as Sam cocks his weapon, and steps out from behind the mast, then a second double-click further away as Mr Smith does the same with the rifle.
‘Gentlemen,’ says Mrs Crawford to the whalers, ‘I suggest you all lay your pistols on the deck, slow and careful. We have had plenty of practice at shooting rats, and you are just more vermin.’
The men look to their skipper, and then, seeing him nod, take their guns from their belts and lower them to the deck. They all seem a bit dumbfounded at the sudden turn of events. No more astonished than I am, though. What a great big fat surprise.
One of the younger whalers standing further back, though, keeps hold of his gun. He lifts his arm slowly, hoping no one will notice.
There is the crack of a shot and an immediate scream of agony. The young whaler drops his pistol. It clatters to the deck. He hops about on one foot while clutching his other boot with both hands. ‘The wench has shot me in the foot!’ he screams.
Mrs Crawford smiles but keeps the gun barrel pointed at him. ‘Call me that again, mister,’ she hisses, ‘and the wench will shoot you in your other foot as well.’
‘You are lucky it wasn’t your head, you damn drongo,’ scolds Captain Bowen, his voice low but getting angrier by the second. ‘Now you lot can get off my vessel before I throw you off. And if I ever see your miserable hides within a thousand miles of Australia, I’ll feed your worthless carcasses to the wombats. In fact, I will throw you off my craft, you green-sickness carrion!’ he shouts. He lifts his boot, puts it between the skipper’s broad shoulders and gives him a mighty push. With a surprised yell and flailing arms, the man topples into the sea with a loud splash. ‘Get out of my sight. Thou dost infect mine eyes!’
The Captain immediately swings around and sees the young whaler still hopping awkwardly on one leg. ‘You too, fool-born barnacle!’ He grabs him by the front of his shirt and, in one smooth movement, heaves the young man over the side. The young whaler cries out in shock as he hits the water, his arms flailing about. A third crewman realises what is coming, runs to the side and hurls himself over. Unfortunately for him, he lands right in their own lifeboat. There is a crashing thud as he hits. He shrieks in pain then groans several times as the boat lurches, threatening to overturn. The fourth whaler looks about, grasps the situation is hopeless, and he too jumps from the deck and lands with a splash.
As the whalers scramble into their lifeboat, Mrs Crawford steps up to the rail and aims her silver gun again.
She fires, pulling the trigger five times. The shots crack loudly and bullets splash all around the lifeboat. The crew yell and duck low in fright, hauling their oars.
‘You missed them, Mother,’ says Anna, sounding disappointed.
‘I meant to, dear. I was just reminding those Yanks that they need to be more gentlemanly in their behaviour. How much do you want for the women, indeed!’
I smile, enjoying the scene.
‘Mr Smith on the mainsheet!’ Captain Bowen yells. ‘Bosun, alter course. Jibe across the wind. Head straight at the whaler. I want to pass within spitting distance of her stern. Sam Chi, get below and get me a metal bucket full of hot coals from your galley fire. And tongs.’
Everyone scurries away. ‘Red, you played cricket at Christian Brothers. I once overheard you tell the Bosun. Now you have the chance to hit a six and make it worthwhile.’
I look at him, astonished. What on earth is he talking about? Cricket? Has he lost his mind?
The Captain tosses me the broken end of an oar. ‘Okay, Red,’ he says, ‘Australia against the United States. See if you can reduce them to ashes.’
I square up as if on a pitch and tap the deck several times. Using his stove tongs, Sam reaches into the bucket and lobs a hot coal about the size of a billiard ball towards me. I step forward, bend my knee and swing at it with all the skill I can muster. Whack! With a shower of sparks, the hot coal soars into the air, across the narrowing gap between our boat and the whaling ship and onto its deck. It smashes onto the timber. More red and yellow sparks scatter.
I hit another. ‘What the …!’ yells a crew member as a red-hot coal hits him full in the chest and then falls to the deck. He frantically brushes away sparks.
I whack another, and another. The fourth glowing coal lands in one of the big cauldrons on the deck, just as I intend. A mighty whoosh erupts as the whale oil in it catches alight. Flames shoot from the big black tub singeing the loose flapping sails. Within seconds, fire spreads, though not as fast as when we set the luggers alight. The whaling ship is constructed mostly from iron, but there is still plenty to burn, especially the stacked-up barrels of whale oil. Thick black smoke quickly fills the air between us. In all the swirling darkness of the inferno, several crew members rush to roll barrels overboard before they can explode.
Captain Peabody and his lifeboat crew have managed to climb into the small boat, and row frantically towards their ship. The whaler who landed in it by accident is slumped over the stern. The younger one who was shot in the foot rows even though his foot must hurt like crazy. They are over halfway there.
I lean on my cricket bat as if I am the Australian cricket captain Jack Blackham satisfied at having hit the winning runs. I imagine the applause from the crowd in the grandstand.
‘I didn’t want them coming after us,’ says Captain Bowen, as if I need an explanation. ‘That’ll slow them down, considerably. And besides, the Indian Ocean whales, what’s left of them, will be thanking us.’
I look towards the whaler and the thick black smoke billowing skywards. The boat crew still row frantically but have not yet arrived back at their ship. They will undoubtedly be in for a hectic, hot time saving it when they do manage to get back on board.
On the whaler’s deck, the rest of the crew anxiously fight the flames with buckets of water while two men wrestle to unwind a long fire hose.
‘And remind me not to play cricket against you, Red,’ the Captain adds.
I laugh, pleased with myself.
‘Did you see the size of that exploding harpoon on their bow?’ the Captain asks.
‘It explodes?’ I ask. ‘What, in a whale’s head? That’s not very sporting.’
‘Imagine what they could have done to us with that damn thing. This way, by the time they get the fire put out and have done repairs, they will probably have lost all the will for whaling and head back home, where they belong. While we will be well over the horizon.’