Barbarians on an Ancient Sea

by William Westbrook

  His interview with Doruk had unnerved him; his boast about sailing away with the gold had been embarrassingly weak. The question he wrestled with was what would happen next?

  The longer he lay awake the more he was sure that the dey would try to lure Rascal into Algiers’ harbor where he would have the ship at his mercy. The dey would have the gold, the ship and some ninety crewmen as slaves for market. Fallon involuntarily clenched his fists at the thought.

  He could trust Beauty to be too smart to believe the dey’s promises of safe passage. Unless… unless they used him or Little Eddy for bait somehow.

  That thought threw him into a paroxysm of guilt and gripping fear for Beauty and the crew. His mind fought for a way to resist the paralysis that he felt creeping over him; he must think of something. He fingered the sea dog around his neck, unconsciously hoping for luck. He was still hoping for it just before dawn when he closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to wonder if the only plan he’d imagined had any chance of success.

  He decided it did not, but it was the only plan he had.

  FIFTY

  THE NEXT MORNING THE JANISSARIES CAME FOR FALLON AND LITTLE Eddy and they were led up the hill through the upper city. The houses seemed to tumble upwards in clusters of white, while against the bluing sky the dey’s palace seemed majestic, shining, unassailable.

  The pair were shown into the columned Audience Hall, the marble floors stretching to where Doruk stood and, there, seated on a golden cushion, was the dey himself.

  “I am Mustapha Pasha,” said the dey to Fallon, his dark eyes penetrating and unblinking. “You call yourself Captain Fallon, I understand, and claim to be in Algiers to ransom one of our slaves, Wilhelm Visser. Am I correct?”

  “Yes,” said Fallon warily.

  “Further, you claim your ship was attacked by an Algerian corsair inside the Strait and thus you decided to enter our country on foot, in disguise, without the ransom. Is this correct?”

  “Yes,” said Fallon, waiting to see where the dey would take the conversation from here.

  “You have stated your ship, a privateer named Rascal, is at this very moment in Gibraltar with the ransom.”

  “Yes,” said Fallon again, shifting his eyes to Doruk, who smiled.

  “How much money did you bring?” asked the dey.

  “We brought what we understood the ransom for Wilhelm Visser to be, which is $10,000,” replied Fallon coolly. “In gold.”

  The dey rubbed his beard, appearing to be deep in thought. Fallon had watched his eyes carefully when he’d said in gold and saw them flicker.

  “Very well,” said the dey at last. “You may send a message to your ship stating that it is safe to enter our harbor. We will then exchange the prisoner for the gold and you will be free to go on your way. I will even allow your ship’s boy to go free, as well. This is a sign of my good faith, Captain Fallon.”

  “I have stated to Doruk that my ship will not move without my command,” said Fallon firmly. “I will return to my ship with the boy and my second mate and bring the ransom back myself. You will still have Wilhelm Visser and we can arrange an exchange at a mutually agreeable time and place.”

  The dey’s eyes squinted.

  “Captain, you are in a poor position to demand anything,” he said harshly. “I can have you killed in an instant, and your second mate. I would kill the boy but he is such a fine young man that I have other uses for him.”

  A pause. Fallon’s stomach clenched.

  “Doruk, take off the boy’s clothes.”

  Little Eddy had been oblivious to the proceedings until now, not understanding lingua franca. But Doruk made a move towards him and he instinctively broke free of the guard and ducked behind Fallon who, in any case, had stepped between the boy and Doruk.

  “Your resistance is useless, captain,” said the dey. “If you are dead who will protect the boy, eh? Such a delightful looking boy. He will be loved by someone when you are dead, captain. Oh yes, loved.”

  Little Eddy grasped Fallon’s waist tightly, and peeked around him to see Doruk, who was smiling broadly.

  “No!” Fallon shouted through clenched teeth. But he knew he was in a poor position to protect Little Eddy, and as Doruk took a step forward he could feel the boy shaking behind him.

  “I will send the message,” he said with resignation.

  “Excellent, captain,” said the dey condescendingly. “My scribe has pen and paper and he reads and speaks English, I might add. Because he is English! You will write your message and he will know if you are practicing deceit. I wouldn’t do that if I were you, captain. There will be no second chances. For you or the boy.”

  The dey clapped his hands once and there appeared from behind one of the columns a short, slight man carrying pen and paper.

  Apparently, the dey was quite confident in the outcome of the interview, thought Fallon. He had been totally outflanked.

  Doruk peeled Little Eddy away from Fallon and held his arm tightly, still smiling. “Now you will write the best letter of your life, captain,” he said. “But no tricks.”

  The scribe led Fallon to an alcove overlooking the upper city that was flooded with light and placed the pen and paper on the ledge.

  “I am Howard,” he said, “personal scribe to the dey. I must warn you not to try anything devious with the letter. Make it straight forward and utterly convincing.”

  “How did an Englishman come to be the dey’s scribe?” asked Fallon contemptuously.

  But Howard brushed the contempt away. “It was that or lose my balls, my friend. What would you have done in my place?”

  The two men stared at each other a moment before Fallon took the quill pen and dipped it in the jar of ink.

  And then he turned to Howard with a question.

  “How will my ship enter the harbor? I understand it is quite shallow in places.”

  “That will be no problem, captain,” said Howard. “There is a pilot boat that will meet the ship and guide her in to an anchorage.”

  Whereupon Fallon seemed to accept the answer and began writing.

  Dear First Mate McFarland,

  I have the dey’s promise that Algiers is safe for British ships. Upon receipt of this message you will take aboard any additional crew that you need in Gibraltar and prepare to be off the mole at the harbor in 10 days’ time. That’s where a pilot boat will meet you. Good luck.

  Nicholas Fallon, Captain

  May 8, 1800

  Finished writing, Fallon looked at Howard as he read the message.

  “Convincing enough for you, Howard?” Fallon asked bitterly.

  “It had better be, captain. If your ship is not here in ten days the dey will… well, let’s just say he keeps his threats.”

  Fallon stared at the letter in the alcove, and then reached behind his neck to untie the necklace Beauty had given him for luck and tossed it on the note.

  “So McFarland will know the letter is really from me,” said Fallon. “Now let the boy go!”

  Howard looked at the note, then the necklace, and then Fallon. Apparently, the dey’s threat to the boy had worked rather well. The necklace certainly seemed to prove Fallon wanted the note to be believed. It was a good touch.

  Howard signaled to Doruk that the letter was approved and the boy was released to run to Fallon’s side. As the two were led away down the Audience Hall Fallon turned to look back at the dey, but the gold cushion was empty. He was gone.

  As Fallon and Little Eddy were marched back down the hill towards the bagnio, Zabana was emerging from a darkened doorway of a cafe on a side street. Having finished his small coffee, he was leaving to go back to his ship to supervise the repairs caused by his battle with the British schooner. What he saw from the shadows astounded him, confused him, and angered him, for there was the wicked British captain who had attacked him! And the boy he had captured from the captain’s ship! Doruk and two guards were leading them down the hill from the dey’s palace. How did the British captain
get here? And, most importantly, why was he meeting with the dey? The questions flooded Zabana’s mind as he watched the little procession proceed towards the quay.

  As he stepped out into the street behind them, Zabana was struck by another thought. A better kind of thought that almost made him smile. The British captain was in prison less than one hundred yards from his ship.

  Zabana would have him!

  FIFTY-ONE

  THE XEBEC LEFT THE QUAY IMMEDIATELY WITH THE MESSAGE FOR RAScal, the ship’s name written clearly on the outside of the packet. There was a good breeze from the southeast and the galley slaves could rest easy as the ship sped along westward. Coming back against the wind would be another story, unfortunately. The slaves were naked and chained to their oars in the usual custom aboard galleys and they sat in their own excrement, their skin peeling in blistered layers from sunburn. They appeared to sleep and perhaps some did, but one man was actually dead and had not been discovered yet.

  The reis knew he had nothing to fear from any nation or any ship as the dey’s treaties protected him from attack from the larger countries’ navies. And, who knew, perhaps he might even take a prize.

  But no ships were sighted all day and by late afternoon the next day he was off Gibraltar. He ordered the big sail taken in and the sweeps to begin, which is when the dead slave was discovered and thrown overboard. Slowly the xebec entered the harbor under the precaution of a white flag and the reis looked at each ship they passed to find one whose name matched what was written on the packet.

  Beauty saw the xebec rowing towards the ship and immediately called all hands. Though they were in a British harbor, the recent battle with Algerians was fresh in her mind and she was taking no chances. Rascals stood at their stations with cutlasses, muskets and pistols and Cully had the gun crews ready, as well.

  As the xebec approached closer the tension aboard Rascal was palpable as every hand fingered a weapon or stood by a cannon. Here was the enemy bearding the lion in its own den.

  The xebec slowed and drifted. As it drew closer one of the janissaries stood on the bow and extended a long pole with the packet tied to the tip across the few feet of water separating the two ships. Beauty caught her breath in fear and concern, knowing without knowing that Fallon was in trouble, perhaps even dead, and that the message would not be good.

  She ordered one of the hands to grab the packet and bring it aboard. No words were spoken between the ships. It was doubtful anyone could have understood anyone anyway. His mission accomplished, the reis ordered the slaves to begin rowing away from Rascal and the harbor and he did not look back. Soon the lateen sails were hoisted, the white flag hauled down, and the xebec slanted southeastward for Algiers.

  Beauty held the packet in her hands, fearing to open it and fearing not to. She looked at the retreating galley, mystified that the British would allow the ship to enter the harbor without blowing it to bits. What kind of treaty did Britain have anyway? It only applied one way, certainly. Just days ago they had been attacked by Algerians, and now one of their ships sailed blithely into a British harbor and away again without consequences. It infuriated her, but her attention was brought back to the packet, for something must be done with it and she took it below to her cabin after first ordering the crew to stand down. They relaxed but didn’t move and watched her as she left the deck.

  In the privacy of her cabin she opened the packet and her necklace immediately fell out. She gasped and stared at it, trying to imagine what it could mean, and then turned her attention to the note.

  She read it through once. Then read it through again. Then picked up the necklace and squeezed it tightly. It was obvious Fallon was up to something, but the question was what?

  Firstly, Fallon had never called her McFarland in her life, so she knew he was trying to send her a message within the message. Secondly, she had implored him to bring the necklace back and put it in her hands so she would know he was safe. But he’d sent it to her. Her conclusion: he wasn’t safe. In fact, he was likely a prisoner along with Aja. Those things seemed solid to her, but as to the bones of the message she wasn’t so sure.

  Upon receipt of this message you will take aboard any additional crew that you need in Gibraltar and prepare to be off the mole at the harbor in 10 days’ time. That’s where a pilot boat will meet you.

  He had been clear that she was to be off the mole in ten days from the date of the letter. He’d stated that the Algerians would send a pilot boat out to guide Rascal to an anchorage, but Fallon had insisted more than once to her that he would never allow Rascal to anchor under the harbor’s guns. What the devil was he up to?

  It was a riddle, and the more she read and reread the note the more obscure it became. Yet everything depended upon her figuring it out.

  A knock at the door and Barclay entered.

  “The hands are worried sick, Beauty,” he said. “What can I tell them?”

  “I don’t know what to tell them, Barclay,” answered Beauty. “I believe Nico and Aja are alive but in what condition I don’t know. The note orders us to be at Algiers in less than 10 days’ time. To do what I’m not entirely sure.”

  She handed him the note to read for himself. She could see Barclay read it through several times and shook his head.

  “It’s straightforward enough, it seems,” he said. “But Nico would never write this note this way without a reason. What is he trying to tell us do you think?”

  “That’s the thing I have to figure out, Barclay,” said Beauty. “And I’ve only got a few days to do it. The thing to do is to think like Nico, if I can.”

  “How are you ever going to do that?” asked Barclay.

  “I’ve got to think of the normal thing a normal person would do,” said Beauty. “And then fucking do the opposite.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  RASCAL RODE EASILY AT DAWN UNDER THE LOOMING SHADOW OF Gibraltar. Beauty paced the deck deep in thought. The decks were holy-stoned and the crew went about their duties, splicing ropes and blacking rigging and chipping shot. Except that few could concentrate knowing that Fallon and Aja were in a desperate situation—and desperate was the right word.

  Barclay had leveled with them, not sharing the message exactly but letting them know Fallon and Aja appeared to be alive, though probably prisoners and even slaves, and Rascal would be going to Algiers to get them. They were all anxious, jumpy, and eager for the time to pass. And, in truth, feeling more than a little guilty that they were doing nothing while Fallon and Aja were in such a precarious situation. And Little Eddy, what of him? No word, Barclay had said.

  Beauty had shared the note with Caleb Visser, as well. He was up and about now, still convalescing from his shoulder wound, but the note sent him into despair. Not because there was no word of his father, but because it appeared his worst fears had come true. Fallon and Aja had been captured.

  The rhythmic thump of Beauty’s peg leg on the deck went on all day. Back and forth, bow to stern and back, her mind in a wrestling match with itself. Her considerable capacity for anger was in search of an outlet. First, the corsairs had attacked them, a British ship on the high seas. Then the janissaries had attacked them and taken Little Eddy. Now Beauty wanted to attack someone. Fallon’s note might give her the chance if she could figure the damn thing out.

  What did Fallon mean by take aboard any additional crew? He knew Rascal had almost a full complement already. The ship was ready for sea and ready for battle, though fighting hand to hand against janissaries might be beyond the pale.

  Then suddenly she stopped. Every hand looked up from whatever small task or mindless work they were doing. They saw Beauty looking across the harbor, past the ships at anchor or moving about. Perhaps what she was thinking of doing wasn’t exactly what Fallon was implying, but it was certainly counterintuitive enough that it could be.

  At eight bells in the morning watch Beauty called for the gig to take her ashore. Her visit would either take a long time or no time, but she was determined
to do something that would aid their chances against the corsairs. Once ashore, she asked a dockhand for directions and set off for the army garrison.

  As might be expected, it was a long walk up a very steep hill. The army would want a strategic position in the event of an attack on Gibraltar, and the fort was well placed with a commanding view of the harbor. Beauty climbed the track as best she could—thank goodness the ground was hard—but it was some time before she got to the gate of the fort and she had to compose herself and catch her breath.

  The garrison was laid out in a quad with a center courtyard, barracks surrounding three sides with administrative offices, stock rooms, and the powder room immediately opposite the main gate. In the center of the quad perhaps five hundred soldiers were drilling, commanded by a full-throated sergeant. Beauty skirted the drill field and made for the building on the far side. Seeing a door marked “Colonel Bisanz,” she knocked.

  Colonel Bisanz was a tanned, fit, be-medaled man with a spectacular handlebar mustache that curled just so at the tips. At Beauty’s entrance he rose from his desk, took off his wire glasses and looked at her curiously.

  “Good morning,” he said formally. “Pray be seated, Miss…?”

  “I am Beautrice McFarland, Colonel Bisanz. My friends call me Beauty but we’ll wait on that.”

  If Bisanz was taken aback at the challenge in Beauty’s words he didn’t show it.

  “I see,” he said. “And what is your business here, may I ask?”

  “I am first mate on the British privateer, Rascal, which is sitting in the harbor just below us. Her captain is Nicholas Fallon, who went on foot to Algiers with our second mate in an attempt to rescue an American and British subject from slavery.”