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

dialect? Did you deduce where the maggots hail from?’ asks the Captain.
    â€˜The skipper at least. Malay, I’d guess. The others stayed pretty quiet,’ the Bosun replies. ‘Nervous like.’
    â€˜Guilty conscience I’d wager. Worried we’d smell them out sooner. Well, they’ll be in a right hurry to get home, and away from us. West it is Bosun. All canvas if you please,’ commands the Captain. ‘Every stitch you can get aloft until the sticks beg for mercy.’
    â€˜You heard the Captain! All canvas! Step lively!’ shouts the Bosun, without using his trumpet. The deck immediately transforms into a colony of rushing ants,with each man knowing precisely what he has to do.
    The Captain turns to me, ‘Boy, fetch me the open chart from my table. At the double!’
    I hurry down the steps towards the Captain’s cabin and return with the chart.
    The Captain glances at the map. ‘The only way is up the Malacca Straits between Malaya and Sumatra. With this breeze, they’ll have to head directly towards Sumatra then tack north from there. That’s when we’ll catch up with them. Those junks don’t tack too well.’ He smiles wickedly. ‘Whereas we do. And God help their wretched, miserable hides when we reach them.’
    â€˜Red, Teuku,’ calls out Bosun Stevenson. ‘Watch for a lighthouse on top of the cliffs. It should be off the port side as you go. A squat, square monstrosity it is too. Brown not white. Everyone in these parts uses that as a marker. That’s what they’ll aim for.’
    I shoot up the ratlines like a rat across a hot tin roof and even beat Teuku to the crow’s nest.
    By midday, I am getting drowsy, with the mast swinging, the sun hot on my back, and not having had any breakfast. We have been sailing at full pace since daybreak.
    A shout from Teuku startles me. ‘The lighthouse!’ he yells, pointing left. ‘I see it.’
    I peer towards the land in the distance and locate the brown brick lighthouse, jutting up into the sky. I do not know how I missed seeing it sooner. The thing stands out like a Christmas tree. Then something else catches my eye. Below the lighthouse and far to the left, silhouetted against the rugged face of the sea cliffs, a fishing junk with a dirty red sail beats hard against the wind. It dips in and out of sight with the swell, waves crashing over its bow. It is just as the Captain has predicted.
    â€˜And there she is, Captain,’ I, too, call. ‘The trading junk. Way back, just beyond where the cliff has collapsed. Running along the coast.’
    â€˜Well done, lads,’ calls up Bosun Stevenson, this time using his trumpet. ‘You can be relieved now. Get down here. Longest way if you like.’
    Teuku slides down the shroud like a monkey, but I climb down carefully, reach the deck and grip the railing to keep myself steady. Up at the masthead, I had not noticed how quickly we were moving, but at deck level and looking over the railing, the speed is remarkable. The wind stretches the canvas sails to breaking point, and water swishes past the hull, leaving a long white wake trailing behind us.
    â€˜You ever played chess, boy?’
    I look over my shoulder, surprised the Captain isactually talking to me and not just sending me to fetch and carry, as usual. ‘Chess? Not much, sir. Sometimes. Back at the Curse. Dominos, though, mostly.’
    â€˜An interesting set of moves this could be. Black Knight to move. Do we get ahead of them and force them onto a port tack and straight into the cliffs? With these waves, they’ll be smashed to pieces on the rocks in seconds. Or do we get in close and blow the blaggards out of the water? I suppose we could sit back here and use them as long-range target practice all afternoon. Long Tom would make merry Hell with a junk like that. Blast them into twigs. Checkmate.’
    â€˜I don’t know, sir,’