The Smuggler's Curse by Norman Jorgensen

I reply, pathetically. Well, I don’t.
    â€˜Remember, they’ve got a bagful of our gold on board, Captain,’ interrupts Bosun Stevenson.
    â€˜And we have a hold full of expensive sea water for our trouble,’ replies the Captain, thoughtfully. ‘But you are right, Bosun. There’s no point in sending hard-earned gold to the bottom if we can recover it from those …’ He hesitates then spits it out venomously, ‘… those cockroaches.’
    â€˜I can put a shot across her bow, get ’em to surrender,’ offers Mr Smith.
    â€˜They’ll not surrender,’ replies the Captain grimly. ‘Not in a million years. They know full well we’ll guttheir gizzards like so many barracudas the minute we get our hands on them. They know who I am. They would have heard the stories.’
    â€˜Double charge Long Tom, Mr Smith,’ he continues. ‘As soon as we’re in range, drop a shot in behind them. We’ll see if we can drive them towards the open sea. They’ll try to out run us and reach the island’s coves facing the north coast but they have no chance of that, especially in this breeze.’
    The gun crew are ready in minutes. Mr Smith peers along the barrel and using a wheel on a long screw, adjusts the gun carriage to its maximum height for the longest shot. Eventually, he seems satisfied and looks up, ready to pull the cord on the trigger.
    â€˜Whenever youse is ready, Cap’n,’ he says.
    When the double charge from Long Tom fires, it fairly rips the air apart, and the shock wave of the massive charge goes straight through me, shaking me from my ears right down to my toes. A ten-foot column of flame bursts from the cannon’s mouth. Moments later, part of the distant cliff, above and behind the fishing junk, explodes in a puff of red dust as the cannonball strikes. I stand there with my mouth open in shock as the acrid stink of the gunpowder fills the air for a brief second, then immediately blows away in the wind.
    â€˜Holy Moses!’ exclaims someone close by.
    The Bosun lifts his telescope to his eye. ‘It worked. They’re going about. Changing tack to seaward.’
    â€˜Bosun, do you think you can get us in close to that point?’ says the Captain, pointing to where the green jungle meets the sea.
    â€˜Not too close, Captain. Submerged rocks. I’ve been here before. But I’ll do my best, sir.’
    Bosun Stevenson looks towards the helmsman and nods. The helmsman immediately spins the wheel to the right, and the motion of the boat changes a shade.
    â€˜â€™scuse me, Cap’n!’
    â€˜What is it, Mr Smith?’ replies the Captain, turning slightly to face him.
    Mr Smith’s face has turned pale. He seems suddenly very alarmed, as he points to starboard, amidships. He does not need to say anything.
    Clearing the headland and bearing down on us rapidly thunders an enormous frigate. The canvas on all three masts full, with the decks cleared for action and her gun ports open. Moreover, flying from her backstay, three flags whip colourfully in the wind; the white and blue flag of the Netherlands, the pennant of a Captain, and the Dutch battle ensign.

T HE F RIGATE
    â€˜Where did that come from?’ exclaims the Bosun, genuinely surprised. ‘God preserve us.’
    The massive old frigate, its timbers painted blue and bright yellow, is racing straight at us.
    â€˜The Willem that’ll be, Captain,’ says Bosun Stevenson recovering his composure. ‘Thirty-six guns, if I remember correctly. Always on patrol in these parts, looking for smugglers and pirates. She is old and slow but mighty powerful. Nothing can stand up to those guns. Nothing. Last of the line she is.’ In spite of the certain danger, he sounds almost proud to be seeing such a magnificent old ship.
    â€˜Still think the East Indies is theirs, them Dutch do,’ adds Mr Smith.
    â€˜They are still mostly