Barbarians on an Ancient Sea

by William Westbrook

  The plan was coming together now in Fallon’s mind and his finger stabbed at the chart as the little group in his cabin tried to see what he was seeing. Algeria lay on the southern side of the Mediterranean, with the port city of Algiers some little way beyond the Strait itself. There were indentations in the coastline aplenty, particularly past Tipasa, an ancient city several days’ walk from Algiers.

  “Beauty,” said Fallon, a new determination in his voice, “I want you to land Aja and me here, just past Tipasa.” He pointed to a small cove on the chart. It was shallow but the ship’s gig should have no trouble landing there. “Aja is an African, to all accounts, and I am his Christian slave, head down, weary, dejected. We should be able to make our way to Algiers in two days or so. Meanwhile, Beauty, return here to Gibraltar. Give us two weeks, then sail back to pick us up at the same spot. We’ll find O’Brien or the British consul or somebody who can tell us how to get Little Eddy and Wilhelm Visser back.” And he said it in such a way that everyone in the cabin knew he would not be taking no for an answer.

  “And if you’re not there, Nico?” asked Beauty. “What then?”

  Fallon looked at the chart of the harbor. The fortifications. The mole. And he remembered Sir William’s words: no one ever knows with these fellows.

  “In that case, I think you’ll be getting a ransom note unless I am very much mistaken.”

  That brought everyone up short, but they could see that Fallon was committed to the idea now and, really, what else could they do? The thought of Little Eddy being sold in a slave market was more than any of them could bear and it brought a certain urgency to the room. It was not lost on any of them that they now felt what Caleb Visser had felt all along.

  That night Fallon lay on the stern cushions with a glass of wine and thought of everything that could go wrong with his plan. Once ashore, he and Aja would be on their own and would have to make the most of any situation they faced. He had no fear for Aja’s quick wit and could trust him to act decisively.

  The problem, of course, was that Aja couldn’t speak Arabic or whatever the language was that Muslims on the Barbary Coast spoke. He might look the part of a Muslim but he couldn’t speak the part. Fallon would have to rely on lingua franca if it came to speaking. He decided they would both carry a dirk and a pistol under their robes in case there was a misunderstanding they couldn’t mumble their way out of.

  FORTY-FOUR

  RASCAL CREPT TOWARDS TIPASA UNDER A MOONLESS SKY AS AJA AND Fallon got dressed in Fallon’s cabin. The sea chest which had been salvaged after the corsair attack had yielded caftans and headwear and a pair of sandals. The carpenter had been able to replicate a second pair of sandals from tanned leather he’d purchased in Gibraltar and sew the caftans to fit. When they were finished dressing, Fallon and Aja came on deck to be gawked at and admired, for the transformation was really quite complete.

  An hour before dawn Rascal’s gig was lowered over the side as the ship lay hove-to some thirty-five miles past Tipasa in a small, shallow cove. Fallon had said goodbye to Caleb Visser below decks and Visser’s eyes had been full of gratitude. The American promised to pray every night for Fallon’s safe return, for he knew without knowing how dangerous the coming days would be.

  On deck, Beauty pulled Fallon aside for a last word.

  “You know, Nico,” she said, “you are the only family I have and I love you like my brother. You be sure to be here when I come back or these Muslim fuckers are going to get the full wrath of the McFarland clan.” And then she opened his hand and put her necklace with the rawhide string in his palm, the wooden sea dog that Fallon had carved for her. “Wear this for good luck, Nico. Sea Dog brought us back together once before. Bring this back to me and put it in my hand just like I am putting it in yours. Then I’ll know you’re safe.”

  “Thank you, Beauty,” said Fallon gratefully as he tied the necklace around his neck. “I’ll need all the luck I can get.”

  With that, Fallon and Aja climbed down into the gig and were rowed away to the shore of the Barbary coast. The gig beached easily and master and slave stepped ashore, the slave carrying a canvas bag with food and water on his back. They set off towards the east, towards Algiers and an unknown world.

  Once they moved more inland the sand became packed and they stumbled upon an ancient track that headed eastward, no doubt travelled by Arabs for hundreds of years or perhaps thousands. Fallon and Aja said little, both acutely aware they were strangers in a strange land and they had better get used to not speaking English. The first travelers they saw were headed west towards Tipasa and, as they approached, both Aja and Fallon held their breath. This was the first test, and Fallon kept his head down while Aja held his high. But the travelers paid them no mind and continued on their way. The first test was passed and they began to breathe normally again.

  That night they camped some little ways from the trail, gathering dead twigs to build a small fire. They ate their dinner and lay down next to each other for warmth, for the spring night was chilly.

  “How are you doing captain, sir?” asked Aja in barely above a whisper. “Is the load very heavy?”

  “I’m fine, Aja,” said Fallon, also in a whisper, though he thought it probably not necessary. “I think we might reach the city by tomorrow evening. And then the real test begins.”

  They drifted off to sleep under a starry sky full of old friends, the planets and stars of a hundred passages on distant waters. They had perhaps slept for several hours when suddenly there was a sound, a padded kind of thump, then another, and as they raised up they saw a camel walking towards them. Riding the camel was a large man dressed more or less as they were, except most of his face was covered by a scarf, and leading the camel was another, smaller man dressed and covered similarly. Fallon suspected they were Bedouins, desert dwellers who were said to be the original Arabs and who travelled by camel across Africa in a nomadic existence.

  O’Brien’s diary had described Bedouins as clannish, keeping to themselves and the desert and only occasionally visiting cities like Algiers to trade camels or goats. Fallon remembered O’Brien’s description of their fractious loyalties. One Bedouin aphorism captured the complexity: I am against my brother, my brother and I are against my cousin, my cousin and I are against the stranger.

  The Bedouins were approaching two strangers.

  As the larger Bedouin on the camel dismounted Aja stood up. Fallon thought it best to remain seated in subservience, but he slid his hand into the slit of his caftan and found his pistol. He noticed that both men carried small, curved swords in sashes around their waists.

  Aja took the initiative to speak first, in his native African dialect, and opened his arms in welcoming friendship. Fallon could see it surprised and confused the Bedouins, who likely did not understand, and they stepped closer to the fire.

  The larger Bedouin spoke to Aja in what Fallon supposed was Arabic. Aja looked at Fallon quizzically, wondering what to do. It was clear that no one understood anyone so far.

  And then the other, smaller Bedouin stepped closer and looked at Fallon carefully; it was obvious Fallon was not Arabic and was probably Christian.

  “We are curious if we are among friends or enemies,” the smaller Bedouin asked in lingua franca. “Do you understand me? Who are you and where are you going?”

  Fallon froze at a question he had not anticipated, but he understood it at least.

  “I am Armand,” Fallon said, thinking quickly. “My master is from Senegal, to the south, and we are traveling to Algiers.” He hoped that would explain Aja’s language. The larger Bedouin remained stoic, unmoved, never taking his eyes off Aja. Fallon remained on high alert, sensing a dangerous moment.

  “Why do you go to Algiers?” asked the Bedouin facing Aja.

  “I am to be sold there,” answered Fallon, as if the question had been directed to him.

  The Bedouins were unmoved. They studied Aja’s face, and then Fallon’s face carefully, as if trying to make up th
eir minds about what to believe, or do.

  “Do you know Bisha’a?” said the small man to Fallon with a sneer that Fallon didn’t like.

  Fallon shook his head no.

  “Bisha’a is how we know if you are lying,” said the Bedouin, lowering his scarf to reveal a smile. And then as if on cue both men pulled their small swords from their waistbands and the big man pushed Aja down beside Fallon.

  Fallon’s hand was still on the butt of his pistol under his caftan. He had no idea what the Bedouins intended to do, or what the test they called Bisha’a was, but he had no doubt they would fail it.

  The larger Bedouin retrieved a knife from a satchel on the camel, which had lain down and was watching contentedly. Then he thrust the knife into the hot coals and waited patiently by the fire, his sword back in his waistband, his hands hanging at his sides.

  “Bisha’a is a test of deception,” said the smaller Bedouin, waving his own sword in Fallon’s face. “A truthful man has nothing to fear.” He looked at Aja, who was looking hard at the knife in the fire. “Your master will lick the blade of the knife three times. If his tongue does not burn it will mean you are telling the truth.”

  “What if it does burn his tongue?” asked Fallon, as casually as he could.

  “Then we kill you,” said the Bedouin matter-of-factly. “A simple test. Speak to your master.”

  Fallon’s head snapped back involuntarily, but he leaned over to Aja and whispered: “They want you to lick the knife to see if we are telling the truth. Use the big man’s sword when the time comes to act.”

  Aja nodded, cool and unblinking, trying to project a confidence he did not feel. Once again Fallon appreciated his presence of mind under pressure.

  Slowly, the knife’s blade began to glow a bright red. A few moments more, and the larger man withdrew it from the ashes and beckoned Aja to stand. The knife was brought up to Aja’s face and the Bedouin said Bisha’a softly, his eyes widening in anticipation of the coming pain.

  Aja bravely moved closer to the knife, as if he had nothing to fear, but he glanced to the big man’s belly and the sword in his waistband. The smaller Bedouin watched raptly as Aja slowly opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue. It was then that Fallon saw his chance and lunged forward to grab the smaller Bedouin’s arm that held the sword and pull him down. The big man’s attention went quickly to the fight and Aja reached for the man’s sword and quickly withdrew it. The Bedouin still held the hot knife in front of him but Aja sliced downwards with all his might and almost severed the man’s arm. An upward thrust to his belly, a gurgling scream, and the Bedouin staggered and fell backwards on top of the fire.

  Now a shot, muffled. Aja turned as Fallon rolled the smaller Bedouin to the side and stood up, the man’s caftan turning red around a small hole near his neck.

  “Good job, Aja,” said Fallon. “But I guess we’re not as convincing as we hoped. Let’s get this one out of the fire and get their clothes and scarves and weapons off of them. Then we’ll get them buried.”

  Without another word they laid the two Bedouins next to each other wearing only their wounds. The camel had not risen but merely watched the scene with a certain insouciance common to the breed.

  They had no choice but to dig shallow graves by hand and sword and this took the better part of the night, for they continually stopped to listen for anyone approaching. The sand was softer off the path but not so soft that the work was fast or easy. When at last they had two graves dug they rolled the dead Bedouins into them and covered the bodies with sand. By morning some brush had been found to lay loosely on top to help provide cover. They rousted the camel to stand and Fallon boosted Aja up on it. He looked down at Fallon and smiled, then they both laughed, for it was a totally incongruous situation they’d gotten themselves into.

  And there was still a whole day to go.

  FORTY-FIVE

  IT WAS DAWN WHEN SERPENT REACHED THE QUAY INSIDE ALGIERS’ harbor and a deeply humiliated Zabana ordered the captives to be off-loaded and taken to the slave pens. There were several ships at the quay being unloaded and Serpent was the farthest from the gate. That suited Zabana’s mood, for he had no wish to be seen by the dey until he was ready.

  He would sail the world if he had to in order to find the British schooner that had stolen his prize from him. Resentment seethed inside Zabana as he looked longingly at his beheading cart, imagining everything he was going to do to the schooner’s infidel captain.

  First, he would have to confess his loss to the dey. He would lie about the attack and claim he fought valiantly against a bigger ship, perhaps a large frigate.

  And she would be British, of course.

  Wilhelm Visser was on the quay as usual with a bag of wheat on his shoulder when he saw wounded and bedraggled sailors and janissaries being led off Zabana’s ship. He saw new captives being marched towards the pens, and among them was a young boy. He looked to be about eight, and Visser was immediately gripped by fear for him. He would no doubt be sold at the slave auction with all the other prisoners that Zabana’s corsairs had captured, and he knew that certain Arabs liked young boys for pleasure.

  What could he do?

  He thought of his own sons at that age, young and full of life and trusting, and he thought he would be sick. The boy looked at him as he was led away and Visser looked back, a promise in his eyes that he had no idea how to fulfill.

  And then, an idea. There was nothing to lose by trying, he decided.

  After so long in captivity and constantly acquiescing to their demands, the guards on the dock had come to know Visser and trust him more than most slaves. In truth, he had never given the guards any reason to mistrust him.

  So it was not unnatural for him to approach the head guard overseeing the other slaves on the quay to ask a favor. With all the wickedness he could summon in a smile he asked if he and the boy could have a pen to themselves.

  The head guard smiled back wickedly, as well. Then the other guards joined in, smiling knowingly.

  It could be arranged.

  Fallon and Aja slowly crossed the desert and no one stopped them or paid much notice. To all accounts they looked like Bedouins, or hoped they did, and their faces were covered with scarves to present only their eyes to the curious. As they drew closer to Algiers the travelers they met grew more numerous and, if anything, paid even less attention to them. It grew much hotter in the middle of the day, and though Fallon longed to remove the scarf covering most of his face he dared not. Aja repeatedly asked if he would please ride the camel, but Fallon refused. His role was to be Aja’s slave and he would trudge on; the more tired he became the more he looked the part.

  The camel was a sturdy beast and easily followed Fallon. The Bedouins were known to be excellent camel trainers and the camel Aja rode proved the point. When they reached the edge of the city, however, they would set him free and go ahead on foot.

  Algiers was not far away now. The track veered closer to the sea; Fallon could smell it close by, but without climbing a tree he could see no boats or sails. As the light began to fade in the late afternoon a small, hot breeze began blowing from the south. Out there somewhere was the fabled Sahara Desert with its miles upon miles of arid sand. It was said that all of Africa’s myths and mirages originated there.

  They decided to stop short of the city and make camp early, off the track as before, but without a fire. Fallon wanted to enter the city fresh the next morning, with his wits about him should quick thinking be required, which was more than likely. He calculated that Algiers must be only a few miles away. He tried to sleep, but all he could do was fret about how easily they had been found out by the Bedouins. There were so many cultural clues, he decided, that no amount of disguise could cover. Perhaps the way they held their heads, or met a gaze, or perhaps something just hadn’t seemed right about them to the Bedouins.

  As he thought ahead to what the next day would bring inside the city, he felt a cold shudder of fear. And it wasn’t the coolin
g desert air he was feeling. He had a premonition of failure as powerful as any feeling he had felt in his life. And it was made all the more powerful by the knowledge that there was no turning back.

  The long rollers of the Atlantic held moonlight as Jones took a turn around Renegade’s deck. He stood at the taffrail and stared at the ship’s wake, flecked with light that disappeared and reappeared. It seemed to stretch all the way back to Antigua.

  Jones was the most junior on the captain’s seniority list, but he was still a young man and the war and old age created vacancies on the list so he had no worry about moving up. He lived in the present; well, most of the time. And the present meant seeing his ship and his important passenger safely to the Mediterranean.

  Sir William had said little at their dinner that first night to enlighten him as to his role in the events of the Mediterranean or his particular relationship with Lord Keith. Secrecy was apparently the watchword and, to that end, Sir William had kept more or less to himself since that dinner, no doubt to avoid unwanted conversation and prying questions. Jones had no real experience with men like Sir William, men who kept to the shadows and revealed a false front to the world. Perhaps Sir William sensed his curiosity and that made him all the more reclusive.

  Admiral Davies had confided in Jones only that his passenger was an acquaintance of Lord Keith’s, who relied on Sir William’s insights gained as a businessman who moved more or less freely between nations in the Mediterranean. To Jones, even with his limited world view, that said spy. Jones’ orders were to call at Gibraltar, ascertain Lord Keith’s exact whereabouts, and deliver Sir William to him.

  That, along with a letter entrusted to him by Admiral Davies.

  FORTY-SIX

  FALLON OPENED HIS EYES JUST BEFORE DAWN. IT TOOK HIM A MOMENT to focus but then he sat bolt upright, for he and Aja had been joined by a stranger in the night. The man sat cross-legged and looked at Fallon kindly with something like a beatific smile on his face.