Chapter 17

The Dawn Trader was a solidly built wooden gaff-rigged ketch. She measured 72 foot on the waterline. The boat was the oldest of my half-brother's fleet. Conrad's inter-island trading business was legitimate. It was also a cover for a wide variety of criminal activity independent of - but frequently supporting - my sister-in-law's Kim's white slaving activities.

My presence on board was ostensibly to recover from a very nasty night in Bangkok. I suspected the real reason was to keep me away from Kim, who I had come within a fore-skin's breadth of rooting during said night. An unnecessary precaution but Conrad had a jealous nature.

I was told to rest, recuperate and practice my navigation, a subject I had studied in night school. There was, in fact, no real need for me to used the sextant and sight-reduction tables, stored above the chart table, just inside the wheel house. Dawn Trader was equipped with all the latest satellite navigation equipment and her twin diesel engines (plus auxiliary generator) ensured that there would always be power enough to make use of the electronic marvels. The skipper, Mavis MacGregor, however, took a sly pleasure in making me go through the motions. By her presence, she made sure that I couldn't cheat by sneaking a look at the computer. She was a large masculine woman of about forty years and much attached to the second mate, Cordelia, a spiteful, fluffy-haired, blonde of similar age.

The first mate, who answered to "Popeye", stood six-foot-six and could have passed as an Iranian weight-lifter. He shared his cabin with his boy-friend the cook, who was a slim, nervous, Filipino. Once it became clear that I was not inclined that way the quality, and quantity, of my meals improved no end.

The rest of the crew, four men who lived in the forward part of the ship, had been recruited from Port Moresby. I was told they were a bunch of rascals. They looked like a tight knit gang of cut-throats. I didn't know then a "rascal" from Papua New Guinea was a member of a gang of cut-throats...

At first I did not feel deprived of female company. Once rested, however, I missed the ready availability of nookie which had been a regular part of my life for the past few months. Shipboard life was comfortable enough but once the wonder of being borne on Neptune's heaving bosom under more stars than ever were seen ashore wore off, sexual-frustration set in. To compensate I threw myself into becoming a useful sailor and by the time we reached our first port of call, Labuan, I could hand, reef and steer with the best of them.

I helped unload our legitimate cargo of bales of Thai silk and Japanese scotch and load a quantity of wooden furniture and several crates of well-drilling equipment for a remote New Hebrides venture before sprucing myself up for a run ashore. The skipper had other plans. I was appointed watch-on-board for the duration of our brief stay and got no further inland than the foot of the gangplank.

The rascals told me I hadn't missed much and I believed them. We sailed on, into the Sulu Sea, where we ran into a sudden squally storm. When the excitement had passed, I was told to help the hands re-stow the cargo which had shifted during the blow. One of the crates had broken open to reveal the description "well-drilling equipment" covered World War Two small arms, including Bren guns and a quantity of .303 inch ammunition. I took one of these antiques on deck. There was a weapon-training pamphlet in the crate and, with the skipper's grudging approval, I taught myself to operate the Bren gun. Target practice was a poor substitute for sex, but the light machine gun proved remarkably accurate - both firing single shots and in short two or three round bursts - and I became quite proficient in sinking beer cans and other garbage tossed off the stern.

About a week later, in the vicinity of Helen Reef, we came across cruising yacht at anchor in the lee of a small island. Mavis decided to meet and greet our fellow seafarers. We dropped anchor nearby and she sent me in our dinghy, bearing gifts, and to see if the yacht needed assistance. I was under orders to invite the crew to a barbeque on the beach that very evening. The crew was a family on a voyage around the world. Mum could have graced the cover of Sports Illustrated. She was an athletic thirty six or seven, blonde, bronzed and small bosomed, but her daughter was a Penthouse Special, a bouncy, cuddly eighteen year-old with tits to die for. A juicy chick, just aching to be backed up to a palm tree by a lusty lad like me and shown some hairy-husked nuts. Dad was good-looking too, as I reported to Popeye on my return, with the family's thanks for the fresh bread and an acceptance of the invitation to a beach barbeque.

I didn't get to attend the party. Mavis again confined me to the Dawn Trader by appointing me anchor watch. At the time I was very close to mutiny. From the deck I could see the beach and, while daylight lasted, the band of dark shade beneath the canopy of coconut palms that formed the backdrop to the celebrations. Through the ship's binoculars I could see Mavis and Cordelia making much of Mum while Popeye and the cook plied Dad with overproof rum. The bouncy blonde daughter was holding court with the rascals. It all seemed very jolly and yet I had a sneaking suspicion that something very bad was about to happen. As night fell someone ashore switched on a CD player and soft music filled the tropical darkness. Some time later someone, I guess it was mum, let rip a most terrible scream.

I had been dozing on deck and came awake in an instant. Using the binoculars I could see only what the bonfire illuminated. Popeye was using his massive fists to pound something white draped over a fallen tree-trunk. It could have been a torso. Mavis and Cordelia were close by. They were kneeling on a writhing, naked, female body. Mum, I guessed from the size of her tits. There was no sign of the rascals nor of the young woman. As the fire died down little could be discerned on shore.

When the dinghy returned Popeye was led below by the cook. Both were covered in blood. Popeye looked stoned. "One-tot terror!" muttered Mavis. "There's been an accident." She followed him below. Two of the rascals, Ernie and Ben, grinned at me and went forward to their bunks without saying a word. Cordelia was left with me by the wheelhouse.

"Where are the other two?" I asked, nodding after the crewmen.

"Helping with the yacht," said Cordelia. She looked smug and self-satisfied like a cat who has just eaten a canary. She noticed the binoculars. Her eyes narrowed. "How much did you see, Sebastian?"she asked.

I shook my head. "It was dark," I said truthfully and shrugged.

"Good lad," she said. "Sensible lad! You can go below now I'll stand deck watch."

When we set sail the following morning we were accompanied by the yacht. One of the rascals, Toby, I think, was at the yacht's wheel and Bruno, his mate, was on deck. There was no sign of the family.

Twenty six hours later, we met with another bunch of blood-thirsty pirates.

The meeting happened about two hours after sunrise. A sea mist had reduced visibility to about 100 metres. The yacht astern was a ghostly shadow. We were reaching along, our sails hardly drawing, at about two knots when the unmistakable rattle of gunfire was heard from dead ahead. Mavis quietly mustered all hands on deck and issued weapons. Machetes and .38 revolvers for the two rascals. Uzis for the officers. The cook had a cleaver. We lowered the main without a squeak from the gaff and crept towards the noise under jib and mizzen. I was sent to the bows with my Bren gun and a box of filled magazines. Popeye, the rascals, and the cook crouched down amidships. The noise ahead reached a crescendo as the mist parted and we slid silently into view.

The pirate vessel was an island fishing boat, their prize a big, glossy, black-hulled motor yacht. The glass and chrome pleasure boat was about 25 metres long. A rich man's toy. The wooden hulled pirate boat lay alongside, and was dwarfed by, the gin palace. From the occasional sound of a shot and the noise of yells of triumph and screams of pain, it seemed that most of the pirates were on board the larger vessel. The attack was over. The looting and pillaging had begun. There were several bodies in the water.

The two boats were lying head to wind. Mavis decided to come up on the unoccupied side of the motor yacht, to let Popeye and his gang board the vessel. Then we would fall back and engaged the pirate boat with the machine gun. The plan had the merit of keeping pirates off the ketch if Popeye's surprise raid failed. The plan worked well and, boarders away, Dawn Trader drifted backwards.

As the stern of the pirate vessel came into view I began firing the Bren gun in short bursts, as recommended by the pamphlet. The noise of the machine gun firing from behind them brought the pirates, who were looting the gin palace, tumbling on deck, where they were ambushed by Popeye and his gang. It was a massacre. The slaughter was made worse when the pirate vessel cut all lines to its prize and attempted to run. A tracer round from the Bren gun must have ignited fuel on board the wooden boat as it tried to escape. The pirate vessel started to burn and after travelling only a few boat's lengths exploded violently and within minutes, sank.