The Smuggler's Curse by Norman Jorgensen Read Free Book Online

the lights of the Singapore settlement, across on the Malayan mainland, a single light suddenly flashes. It comes back four more times.
    â€˜What’s he like, Captain, this new bloke?’ asks Bosun Stevenson.
    â€˜I haven’t met him. He’s one of Chang Pao’s captains — a pirate,’ laughs the Captain. ‘What more do I need to say? But we’ve been promised a good price.’
    â€˜You trust him?’
    â€˜Who, Chang Po?’ asks the Captain. ‘About as much as I’d trust Old Nick himself. Chang Pao was a pirate like no other, with a whole fleet of ships, though he reckons he’s retired. Retired? Ha! He sits up in that big house of his sponsoring all kinds of thieves and felons and gentlemen of the sea. He makes far more money from his kickbacks and commissions than he ever did riding the high seas himself.’
    â€˜You, boy,’ commands the Captain, seeing me listening. ‘You can handle an oar tonight. We’ll get you toughened up even if we have to kill you doing so, eh men?’
    The men laugh, happy at the thought of me getting killed, I suspect. I nod slowly, embarrassed and unsure. Is this how the new ship’s boy is to meet his fate? Ambushed on a deserted Malayan beach by a regiment of government troops or skinned alive and sold for a satchel?
    We row quietly through the darkness to the shore, the slap and groan of the oars surprisingly loud on a calm night. The Captain must have selected this particular hour for the delivery based on the moon, for it appears as a mere slither of a fingernail, making the darkness even deeper. I can hardly see the man in front of me, but the others have obviously done this many times before and it does not seem to worry them overmuch.
    The tide is out and the beach sand hard and wide. A tiny amount of moonlight reflects off its wet surface, making it a little easier to see when we reach the shore and pull the boats clear, the bows resting on the sand.
    Back from the water’s edge, at least six men stand in a group beside a small trading junk, its flat bottom resting on the sand. The open hold is loaded high with small kegs.
    I look quizzically at Mr Smith and he whispers in reply, ‘They’re firkins of brandy, Red.’
    Bosun Stevenson and the junk’s master exchange a few halting words, and then the Bosun hands over a calico bag, full of coins by the sound of it. The junk’s master jerks it a few times as if mentally weighing it. ‘You don’t need to count it,’ the Bosun says firmly. ‘It’s gold. Everyone knows Captain Bowen’s word is solid.’
    The junk’s master shrugs and spits out a wad of phlegm.
    â€˜Set to, men. We don’t have all night,’ orders the Bosun. ‘God’s tide waits for no man, so get a move on you laggards.’
    The pirate crew stand idly by while we transfer the firkins to our boats, carrying them one at a time. The pirates seem nervous and anxious to be away from the beach, and certainly away from us. They watch intently atevery firkin being manhandled. When a barrel is dropped on the sand, several of them gasp. I wonder what they are so nervous about, other than getting caught by the government.
    One man can just lift a firkin, but it is heavy going and awkward, and for me – impossible. We soon pair up and carry one between two until the tide starts to turn. Then it is back to one per man again and in a real hurry. The men are puffing and panting in the humid night air as the shallows lap insistently at their ankles and grow deeper by the minute.
    It is well past midnight by the time we haul the last of the firkins on to the deck of the Dragon using a block and tackle tied to the boom and a net swung out over the side as a makeshift hoist. Working without lanterns makes it a difficult job, especially when the kegs have to be stowed below. I soon discover the Dragon has a secret compartment beneath the