With luck, Zabana would return home with prizes in tow. He thought of the admonition he’d sent forth to all his corsairs: don’t come back without a prize. He wanted his captains to be afraid for their lives. Or their fingers. Or something else.
TWENTY-THREE
FIRST LIGHT SAW RASCAL MOVE OUT OF THE HARBOR WITH A BUILDING sea breeze and a strong ebb, Beauty at the binnacle in her accustomed spot setting the course and calling for the tacks. Rascal was alive again, lunging and dipping and throwing off spray like a wet dog. Barclay was strapped to a chair on deck, his one sleeve pinned up, snug in a blanket. He was still weak and had to be carried to his chair by his mates, for he was much too unsteady to walk. Fallon considered that his balance might very well be thrown off due to the loss of an arm and he might have to learn to move about the ship again—but that would be later. For now, Colquist thought the sea air would lift his spirits.
“Mr. Barclay,” said Fallon with a smile, “it is good to have you back again.”
“Not in one piece, as it were,” said Barclay. His personality was back, as well. “Beauty and I together make a whole sailor.”
“Yes, I thought of that,” said Fallon. “But you will be glad to know that you are still being paid in full, with no subtraction made for your, er, subtraction.”
“I would not like to lose any more parts, Nico,” Barclay retorted, “or you might change your mind. Pray do not put me in the way of another ball.”
The morning and afternoon slipped behind them, the Atlantic rollers coming easily and regularly to lift the schooner gently up and set her down just as softly. The routine of the ship was reestablished after several days in port and the hands settled into their watches without a thought.
Moments of contemplation without a care were rare at sea, for every smudge or patch of white on the horizon could be an enemy, or an opportunity. Yet the cruise to Bermuda was uneventful, even peaceful, and each mile that passed under Rascal’s keel and into her wake brought Fallon into the present in full appreciation of his ship’s sailing qualities and his crew’s abilities. Cully practiced his men at the great guns, loading and running out, until they reached two minutes between broadsides. That was an extraordinary time, and likely no ship in the Royal Navy could match it. Beauty sent men aloft to furl the topsails or strike the top masts day and night, for bad weather respected no hour or time of day. The crew seemed to delight in their exercises, not least because each man knew that their life or the lives of their mates might depend on their skill in weather or battle.
Fallon watched it all with a deep appreciation for the timing and sequence of tasks carried out so often that, at some point, routine became rule. There was both pleasure and security, he knew, in doing a thing the right way and at the right time. He stood leaning against the mainmast and thought of the ballet of battle as he watched Cully prepare for practice with the bow chaser, the long nine, the only cannon on Rascal not oriented to be perpendicular to the keel.
But Cully was about to start the dance.
A wet swab was pushed down the barrel to remove any salt or debris that might have settled there. Next, a canvas cartridge of gunpowder was pushed down inside and pierced by a metal pricker through the touch hole. A wad was then rammed home, typically a piece of canvas or old rope. Next, a ball was rammed in, followed by another wad of cloth to prevent the ball from rolling out in a heaving sea or if the muzzle was depressed. Then men heaved on the gun tackles until the carriage was run out against the ship’s bulwark. This took the efforts of most of the gun crew, as the weight of the cannon and carriage was easily two tons. Finally, the touch hole at the rear or breech of the cannon was filled with finer gunpowder and, at the order of Fire!, was ignited.
Of course, the ball had to find a target. And in this, too, Cully’s gun crews excelled. Cully’s one good eye could sight the great guns with uncanny accuracy, and he was patient in teaching his men the technique—not so easy at all—of timing the match to the touch hole on a rolling and plunging deck. Nothing could teach the men about battle, of course, except battle. The explosion of a broadside in practice was exhilarating, but in battle it was frightening and could be paralyzing, with balls coming aboard, splinters flying and your mate turning into red jam next to you. No, only battle was battle, and Fallon’s crew had the scars to prove it.
“Very good, Cully,” Fallon said to his master gunner after the last shot was fired. “Secure the gun now and a tot of rum for the gun crew.”
He looked at Beauty, who was grinning broadly. Even Barclay was smiling. No doubt they were thinking the same thing as he.
It was good Cully was on their side and not the enemy’s.
It was barely thirty-six hours later that Rascal drifted to her accustomed anchorage at St. George’s Harbor and Fallon stepped ashore on Bermuda once again. It was quite late and pitch dark as he climbed the hill up from the dock. The trip up the coast of America to Boston was behind him, the battles with pirates and the French frigate another story he could tell Ezra and Elinore, although he would attempt to minimize the danger to himself and his ship. In point of fact, he’d faced worse.
He walked towards the White Horse, more out of habit than intent; intuitively, he wanted to go home. The pub was closed, but a candle burned in his bedroom window as it always did when he was gone, the older Fallon still and always a father. He found the old man at the kitchen table reading, and after the warmest of greetings he sat down to join him.
“Tell me all about your trip, son,” his father said excitedly. “Not the sanitized version you tell Elinore, either!”
And so the events of Fallon’s trip poured out, like the reports he used to give his father when he came home from school. Somehow he was a boy again, looking for his father’s approval, not a grown man who took part in great battles in far-away places. He was a son again, and he could see in his father’s eyes that the old man was proud of him.
“And now you’re home again, safe and sound, and I bet you haven’t told me the half of what you’ve been through,” said Fallon’s father. “But I have news for you, as well. Caleb has found his gold! Or most of it, certainly. The damned bell was a wonder, Nico. It’s unbelievable, is it not?”
Fallon was dumbfounded. He never thought in a hundred years that the gold could be found. And then it dawned on him that Visser would want to continue his quest to rescue his father. But before he could quite get it all ordered in his mind his father continued.
“And now Aja is gone with Loire to English Harbor. The prize agent in Hamilton was fired or recalled to England, so Ezra sent Aja to English Harbor and the prize agent there.”
Fallon was surprised, but not surprised. It was common knowledge that the Hamilton agent was a drunk, and Ezra would want to divide the spoils from the prize as soon as possible. The men counted on prize money for a living.
“When did Aja leave?” asked Fallon.
“Just two days ago, Nico. He and the crew got the ship as good as new for the prize agent before they left. Caleb pitched in quite a bit, as well. No doubt to repay Ezra for letting him go along to English Harbor.”
“Caleb went with Aja to English Harbor?” asked Fallon. “Whatever for?”
“To find a ship to take him to Algeria,” answered Fallon’s father. “He is determined to find a way.”
That bit of news made Fallon sit up straight in his chair.
“Good God,” he said. There was both fear and apprehension in those words.
TWENTY-FOUR
THE NEXT MORNING FALLON FOUND ELINORE AND EZRA IN THE Somers office and, after the embraces and kisses and handshakes and welcome homes, he listened raptly as they described how the gold was found by Indigo Jones and the Bermuda Bell. It was truly remarkable, unprecedented on Bermuda, and the island was abuzz. No doubt, the bell was now fully subscribed for months ahead.
In turn, Somers asked about the trip to Boston, and over coffee Fallon reported on everything since he’d left Bermuda. There was genuine relief that
he had escaped injury from the pirate attack, though concern for Barclay’s horrible wound, of course; and astonishment that Rascal had disabled a frigate, of all ships, without a shot coming aboard. It was something over an hour later when Elinore left, hugging Fallon home again and whispering a promise to meet him that night. He knew what that meant.
“Ezra,” said Fallon, as they sat down across the great partner’s desk they shared, “I understand Aja is off to English Harbor to carry Loire to the prize agent. And he has taken Caleb.”
“Yes, I knew your crew and Woodson’s crew would want to be paid off and Aja did a brilliant job of setting the schooner to rights, I must say. They will be coming back on the postal packet after, and since you have no upcoming cruise I didn’t think you’d mind. Caleb seized the opportunity to go with him in hopes of finding a ship heading eastward to the Mediterranean. I could hardly refuse him, although it concerns me greatly to see him go.”
“No, it was very right to send Aja to get the ship appraised,” said Fallon. “The men will thank you for it, believe me. And I envy Aja having the opportunity to see old friends in English Harbor. Certainly, Harry Davies will welcome him.”
Rear Admiral Harry Davies was in charge of the Leeward Station for the Royal Navy and a particular friend of Fallon’s, having fought together against the French and Spanish as allies. Fallon briefly thought of Davies and wondered how he and the beautiful Paloma Campos were getting along, for Fallon had been instrumental in bringing them together.
But his mind then turned to Caleb Visser and the unknown dangers he would face in Algiers.
“Tell me, Ezra,” he said, “what do you know of the Muslims of the Mediterranean, if anything? I don’t believe I’ve ever met one, but in a month Caleb will likely meet plenty of them.”
Ezra rose from the desk to retrieve a book from his vast library. He scanned the titles and selected the one he wanted before sitting down again.
“They are barbarians, Nico, barbarians on an ancient sea,” said Somers, pushing the book across the desk to Fallon. “Oh, your average Muslim is no doubt a fine fellow, caring for his family, tending his garden and goats, praying daily and following the basic tenets of Islam. But extremists will find what they want to find in any religion to justify their base instincts and seize power and control. So often in history, wars are fought over religions. The Muslims and Christians have been at war for hundreds of years—hundreds!”
“How on earth do they justify that?” asked Fallon. “Do they even remember why they are fighting?”
“Well, the Muslims do, yes,” said Somers. “Their leaders believe that Islam is the one, true faith and that Christians can and should be enslaved for not following it. They’ve been quite successful, I must say. The British government estimates that a million Christians have been enslaved between the states of Algeria, Tunis, Morocco, and Tripoli.”
“Good God!” Fallon exclaimed. “How could France or Spain allow it? Or Great Britain, come to that?”
“That’s a good question,” said Somers. “The answer is that the great naval powers in Europe have bigger battles to fight with each other, I suppose, and feel the Barbary situation isn’t worth a broadside, much less a war. It’s easier to just pay the damned rulers what they want, a yearly tribute for safe passage. It’s certainly cheaper than maintaining a navy just to fight the corsairs. And it has one other advantage: the nations who can’t afford the tribute have their shipping attacked, which dissuades them from trading in the Mediterranean and offering competition to France, Great Britain, and Spain’s own trading interests. By the way, this includes the Americans. Let’s just say it is in Great Britain’s economic interests if American merchant ships are taken by the Barbary corsairs. I believe British diplomats were actually the ones to inform the Barbary rulers that U.S. ships were no longer protected after the peace; in effect, do what you will. It was revenge, pure and simple, to my mind. Not a very pretty picture for us, I must say.”
Fallon rose and walked to the window deep in thought. He had no great loyalty to Great Britain; most Bermudians felt the same way. But it made the truth no easier to hear.
“The Americans are the favorite targets of the corsairs these days, it seems,” said Somers. “The U.S. has an emerging navy, shall we say, and can’t adequately protect their shipping all over the world. So I pray Caleb will find a British ship to carry him across the sea. He has the ransom the dey demanded so I am hoping for his success.”
“Yes, if he gets to Algeria,” said Fallon. “And if his father is still alive. And if the dey is an honorable man. And if the corsairs don’t have other ideas.”
Ezra Somers’ eyebrows went up.
“Exactly,” said Fallon.
It was just after noon when Fallon left the office, Somers’ book tucked under his arm. Soon he was back aboard Rascal and was engrossed in reading, by turns furious and frightened, but engrossed. Somers had given him Remarks and Observations in Algiers, the recently published diary of Captain Richard O’Brien, a captured American seaman who, after many cruel years as a slave to the dey, had at last been ransomed by the United States government.
Certainly, Somers had read O’Brien’s diary, as he’d probably read every book in his library, and summed up the major points well enough. But Fallon concentrated on the Barbary corsairs, learning they sailed in xebecs, for the most part. These ships were long, 80 to 130 feet wasn’t unusual, with low freeboard and shallow draft. Xebecs were quite wide for their length, but the most notable feature was the giant lateen sails on two masts, with a smaller mizzen mast at the stern. This rig would make a xebec a witch on the wind, Fallon knew, and powerful, for they typically carried 18 or more guns. Between the gun ports were up to twelve sweeps each side for use when the wind was light. When the slaves were fresh a xebec could cover 4700 yards in twenty minutes for a speed of seven nautical miles per hour. No large vessel sailing close-hauled in a light breeze was faster or more maneuverable. In a windless chase, a fat merchantman would be finished as the xebecs could easily maneuver close by to board while the packet floated helplessly, dead in the water, her sails slatting and her crew no doubt praying hard for a flaw of wind. This is what O’Brien described happened to his ship, Dauphine.
Fallon’s eyes fell on a passage from O’Brien’s time in captivity:
Picture to yourself your Brother Citizens or Unfortunate Countrymen in the Algerian State Prisons or Damned Castile, and starved 2/3rds and Naked… Once a Citizen of the United States of America, but at present the Most Miserable Slave in Algiers.
Fallon’s mind went right to Wilhelm Visser, of course, for at least O’Brien had been treated rather well in captivity; no doubt better than the average sailor. God only knew what they faced.
A knock at the cabin door and Beauty stepped inside, a small crease of concern on her forehead. It was late afternoon and Fallon was surprised to see her, for she was sleeping out of the ship as he was.
“I thought you’d be here, Nico,” she began. “I think you love this ship better than any house you will ever live in.”
“Yes,” said Fallon, throwing the book aside, “you are probably very right. But what brings you aboard?”
“I heard something in town that I thought you would want to know,” she said. “It seems Little Eddy has run away to sea.”
Fallon thought about the news for a moment. He knew many men who’d done that very thing at Little Eddy’s age. The lure of the sea, of adventure, of seeing the world was powerful to a young boy.
“I guess I’m not totally surprised,” said Fallon. “I don’t think he had a wonderful life at home, but I’m sure his mother grieves.”
“Yes, well,” said Beauty, “the scuttlebutt is that he stowed away.”
“Really?” said Fallon. “Then some captain will get a very clever ship’s boy.”
“Yes, Aja will,” said Beauty. “My guess is he’s probably aboard Loire this very moment.”
TWENTY-FIVE
IT WAS TWILIG
HT WHEN A TROUBLED FALLON MADE HIS WAY TO THE fisherman’s shack on the edge of the marsh. He tried to put Caleb Visser’s problems out of his mind, to compartmentalize his thoughts, for this was the special place where he and Elinore met to be alone, to talk and make plans and make love. It would not do to be preoccupied.
When he knocked and the door opened he gasped.
She was wearing nothing but a grin.
He slid his arms around her waist and kissed her softly, smiling through the kiss and then laughing out loud. Elinore giggled and began tearing at his clothes, throwing his jacket aside and pulling at his shirt to open it and feel his flesh against hers. She pulled him to the small bed and then down on top of her as he fumbled for the buttons on his breeches. When at last the two of them had his clothes off they kissed deeply, no laughing this time, only the quick breaths of anticipation that came like small gasps.
He began moving over her slowly, kissing her neck and moving to her breasts. She squirmed and reached down to guide him inside her, but he pulled back, back and down to the delicious scent below her waist. When finally he nuzzled her there, kissed her there, she gripped the bed-covers tightly and gave herself over to him, to whatever he wanted to do. In a moment she began crying softly in spasms of ecstasy.
And when she was sated and spent and almost incapable of movement, she moved. She turned over and presented herself to him and he mounted her from behind. They began a rhythmic back and forth that didn’t end until he cried out in release and he collapsed by her side.
In minutes, they were both asleep.
The fire slowly began to die and the shack grew darker, the single candle on the table flickering its light off the walls when they awoke sometime later. It was now dark outside and Fallon rose to put some wood on the fire and light a second candle. Elinore had brought early spring flowers for the little table, a bottle of wine and some cheese. The fire made the shack warm and, obviously, romantic.
Barbarians on an Ancient Sea Page 10
