The Smuggler's Curse Read Free

don’t fancy that one little bit, but what am I to do? I look up. The crow’s nest seems to reach the clouds. Nervously, I climb onto the side rail and then scramble up the ratlines hand over hand towards the platform. Each step takes me steadily higher, and I am soon sweating with effort and nerves. As I draw close to the top, I can hear Bosun Stevenson below me shouting orders through a speaking trumpet.
    As I reach halfway up the mast, the ship suddenly keels over at a sharp angle to starboard as the inner jib sail is hauled in and catches the wind. The canvas stretches tight and powerful. Without warning, the deck is no longer beneath me. I hang precariously over the dark water and white waves from the ship’s bow. The wakegrows smoother as the ship picks up speed. Within a few minutes, the wind increases even more, and because the mast is at such a steep angle, I have trouble holding on. I grip the rope even tighter.
    Eventually, the Bosun guides the ship out beyond the protected waters of Roebuck Bay and alters course slightly, and the Black Dragon’s masts come more upright. For just a few seconds, I feel relief. But then the ship begins ploughing headlong into the waves with the mainmast swaying and bucking wildly in time to the water crashing over the bow. My arms are tired from hanging on so tightly, but now, at least, the deck is below me, and not an expanse of shark-infested water. Though, thinking about it, that is probably worse. Terrified, I let go with my left hand and reach out for the rope I am supposed to ride down to the deck. Clutching it as tightly as I possibly can, I quickly let go with my other hand and grab at the stay, but then I’m dangling in the air, with nowhere to put my feet. I now have no choice. I try twisting my foot around the tight rope, but the angle is too steep. I will have to climb down hand over hand, my aching arms carrying my whole weight. If I slide down, the rough hemp will rip the skin from my palms, and I’ll probably drop all the way to the deck anyway. As I hang there, like an over-ripe mango about to fall from abranch, I wonder if my seafaring career is going to be the shortest in history.
    My survival instincts take over. I dare not look down, in fact, I dare not even open my eyes, but somehow I manage to edge my way downwards, hand over hand, my arms and shoulders screaming in pain. My feet finally hit the deck with a thud and I land with a painful bump. I lie on my back, spread-eagled, my heart thumping in my chest and my mouth dry with fear.
    I did not have much to eat this morning, but the climb has scared me so much that every morsel comes rushing up from the depths of my stomach with a sudden gush. I turn on my side and vomit up a putrid puddle onto the deck. I feel as miserable and pathetic as can be.
    â€˜He’ll do Captain, at a pinch, God willing,’ laughs Bosun Stevenson. ‘As soon as he learns to stand on his own two feet. Or keep his breakfast down. I’ll toughen him up, so help me — or so help him more likely.’
    Several sailors start laughing, which makes it worse. The only sensible thought I have is that at least I am not splattered all over the deck like so many pounds of strawberry jam.

B ELOW D ECKS
    After I’ve cleaned up my own mess, the Bosun sends me below decks with the tar-smeared boy. His name is Teuku Nyak King. It is a traditional Sumatran name, he says, but everyone on board just calls him Teuku, or sometimes Your Majesty, as a bit of a joke.
    A smell just like that of the Curse fills my nose and makes me long for home — must, sweat, stale ale and damp timber. The space is the width of the boat, running about half the length and narrow near the bow. Light from a grating in the deck above filters in, casting a checkerboard pattern on the floor at the far end. Canvas hammocks fill the area on each side and a long table, stained and well-worn, runs down the centre. Against the sides of the