To the side of the house, a stable has been built right against the cliff. It doesn’t look anywhere big enough for our train of donkeys.
Mr Baxter appears holding a flickering lantern aloft.
‘Help me with the door, boy.’
It opens outwards, so I grab the edge and heave. The door creaks open on big, rusting hinges. Inside, beyond several empty horseboxes and piles of hay, at the back wall, another timber door covers the rock face.
‘Give me a hand with this one too, boy,’ Mr Baxter commands. ‘It’s on rollers. This way.’
Together, we haul the heavy door sideways. I am surprised to see it covers an enormous cavern carved into the cliff face. In the lantern light, I make out a space the size of a shearing shed, full of barrels, drums, trunks and boxes of all sizes. They fill the walls on all three sides.
‘My favourite location, this treasure trove,’ says the Captain, admiringly. ‘As safe as the Bank of England. You can’t get a boat into the cove unless you know it well. More than one skipper who tried has had his keel ripped out from under him on jagged rocks just beneath the surface out there. And the only track in is the one we just took along the cliffs, and only fools and suicides want to follow that.’
He is not wrong there, especially about the fools.
‘Then how do we get the cargo out again, Captain?’ I ask.
‘There’s a hidden track through the rocks and inland. You reveal that at your life’s peril.’
‘That you do, boy, at your life’s certain peril,’ growls Baxter, sliding his finger across his throat, menacingly.
‘He’s one of us, Baxter. Most definitely. Aren’t you, Red?’ says the Captain.
I nod enthusiastically.
‘He’s Mary Read’s boy, you remember? From the Smuggler’s Curse up in Broome,’ continues the Captain.
Baxter peers closer at me for a second. ‘I’d hardly know you, looking like that,’ he says, his tone suddenly much friendlier. ‘You’re Mary Read’s son then? Well, I’ll be. Look at youse, grown. Almost a man. I remember you as a wee boy, not that long ago when I was last in Broome. The Captain, he’s been working youse hard then since I last saw you, eh? Making a seaman of you, eh?’
‘Should I live long enough,’ I reply.
‘Stick with Black Bowen and it’ll improve your chances of getting to manhood, to my way of thinking,’ continues Baxter.
‘I don’t know about that,’ replies the Captain. ‘We’ve had a few tense moments this journey, haven’t we Red? More than a few close shaves. Pirates out of Malaya trying to blow us to kingdom come, and then a whole army of Dutchmen trying to skewer our gizzards.’
‘At least God is an Englishman,’ laughs Baxter, ‘and spared you.’
‘He must indeed be. And a colonial Englishman at that. We’ve survived so far, and Red has shown plenty of backbone.’
I feel myself blushing, which makes me blush even more, so I busy myself with the unloading.
‘Littlemill Distillery,’ says the Captain to Baxter. ‘Smoother than silk. Slips down a treat. Though it would want to. It took the Devil’s own sweat obtaining it, this cargo did.’
‘Littlemill?’ queries Baxter, suddenly impressed. ‘You haven’t? You haven’t found the fabled lost shipment? You have got to be pulling my tail. Is it as good as the legend says? Or do I need to use my imagination?’
‘I’ll exchange you a bottle for a decent fry up from your good lady wife,’ replies the Captain.
‘Mind that it is only breakfast she serves you up. She has always had a soft spot for you, young Bowen.’
‘It’s not good manners to stir the ashes of another man’s fireplace, even on such a cold morning as this,’ laughs the Captain. ‘Eggs and bacon will be sufficient. That’ll warm me amply.’
‘Youse’ll do well to remember that,’ says Baxter, smiling broadly but holding up a clenched fist.
‘We’ll rest here until nightfall, with your permission, of course,’ says the Captain, changing the subject. ‘Then it’s off to Kalgan Creek to unload most of …’
‘Kalgan Creek? You sold the Littlemills to Simon Turner?’
‘His sort gets as thirsty as the best of us,’ continues the Captain. ‘More so. And he has the contacts with the shipping companies heading east to Melbourne and Sydney. He’ll be able to on-sell the lot for the most handsome profit. Besides, Simon and I are old school chums. Thick as a lump of coal he was, back then at school, but he had enough sense to marry Caroline Fortescue. Lovely woman that she is.’
‘Wasn’t she one of your … er, conquests, Bowen? asks Baxter. ‘I seem to remember …’
‘Blow me down, a man’s reputation is a hard-won thing. And lost on a mere rumour. See you remember that, Red. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit and lost without deserving.’
‘Is she pretty, Captain?’ I ask daringly, ignoring his Shakespearean quote.
‘Cheeky knave, isn’t he,’ says Baxter.
‘I let our Red have plenty of rope,’ says the Captain. ‘He’s saved our bacon on several occasions.’
‘And that is not the only reason,’ someone at the back of the store shed mutters, quietly.
‘Now, speaking of bacon …’ continues the Captain, ignoring the comment.