Free The Smuggler's Curse by Norman Jorgensen

about thirty yards wide, more than broad enough for the Black Dragon to lay up from the storm. A steep-sided valley stretches back inland, but the river soon changes direction so we cannot see how far it continues. All we have to do now is manoeuvre the Dragon into the gap with a driving wind behind us, a rising swell, and the light fading as the clouds grow closer. Even for Bosun Stevenson, this looks nigh on impossible. We could very easily be beached or wrecked if he does not guide the Dragon exactly right. I sure hope his Lord is watching over him right now. Or even Saint Brendan.
    About three hundred yards from the shore, on the seaside of the breakers line, the Bosun orders all sails dropped. The crew rush to lower the jibs and lash downthe flogging canvas of the foresail and mainsail to their booms. No longer moving forward, the Dragon begins to wallow like a sick whale.
    â€˜Now this is the tricky part,’ says Bosun Stevenson, looking over the sea and into the dark churning water beneath us.
    He is not jesting. One at a time, the Bosun has both dinghies lowered. Eight of us clamber over the side, down the rope ladder and into the bucking boats.
    â€˜Get a move on, smite you,’ Bosun Stevenson calls over the wind. ‘Or you’ll have us on the beach like that accursed Dutchy frigate.’
    A line is thrown to the man in the stern of each dinghy, who immediately ties it to a cleat. Within seconds, we haul our oars against the water with all our strength, knowing our lives may well depend on it. Our backs bend with the strain, and the towline rips taut with each surge, but the Dragon hardly budges. It seems we are not making any progress at all, but we must be inching forward as, after what seems like an eternity, the river mouth eventually appears directly in front of us and we slowly tow the Dragon into the inlet. I don’t believe my poor aching muscles will ever recover.
    As the Dragon creeps into the calmer water, the wind falls away in the protection of the hill. We slump over ouroars, exhausted, panting and gasping for air, not saying a word.
    â€˜Well done, men,’ calls the Captain from up at the railing.
    In the dim light, I can just make out a shape on the left bank of the river. Up against the cliff, a tiny house has been built on a broad rock shelf at the river’s edge. The house is not quite derelict but is well on the way. It has wooden walls and coconut thatching on the roof. Green slime and moss colour the grey wood. About fifty yards further along a pathway, another house has collapsed into the river. The back and half a side wall remain standing, but the entire front of the building has disappeared, along with the pathway, leaving a skeleton of roof timbers fallen and hanging at all angles.
    Although the water in the inlet is much calmer than the sea outside, it still surges, and waves lap and splash angrily at the rocky bank.
    â€˜Boy!’ The Bosun looks down to our dinghy from up on the bow of the Dragon. ‘Captain Bowen tells me you can swim.’
    How does he know that?
    â€˜If I throw you a light heaving line, do you think you can get it to the shore? By that first house, and haul across a stern mooring line?’
    It will not be a problem. I am dead tired, but it is not very far, and I cannot get any wetter. In fact, the water may be warmer. Getting in will be easy enough, however climbing up the slimy rocks onto the riverbank could be more difficult. I cannot see one yet, but hopefully, this place has a landing for boats.
    The thin line coils out in an arc and lands in the vessel, directly at my feet. I strip off my shirt and grab the line in my teeth, about to slip into the water.
    â€˜Good luck, son,’ says Mr Smith, his eyes suddenly full of pity. He looks like he expects me to sink straight to the bottom. Or has he seen sharks in the water or crocodiles waiting at the inlet’s edge?
    A surge carries me right to the bank after only a few