Barbarians on an Ancient Sea
Page 24
A frown creased Bisanz’s face.
“Your captain is either very brave or very foolish, I believe,” said the colonel flatly. “By foot you say? Why did he not just sail his ship into the harbor? Are you aware we have a treaty with the dey of Algiers?”
“We were attacked by two corsairs before we even made Gibraltar, Colonel Bisanz,” answered Beauty, the heat coming in her words. “We sunk the bastards in open ocean. Then we sailed through the Strait where we found a third one—a big xebec—attacking an American merchant ship. We came to the American’s aid and the fucking janissaries snatched one of our crew. We were lucky to survive. So the treaty isn’t worth a damn, colonel.”
“Hmm,” said Bisanz. It was likely he’d never heard a woman with Beauty’s particular vocabulary. And the news of corsair attacks on British ships took him aback. He had no idea of it. He hesitated to speak, for it was clear Beauty’s color was getting up.
“I am sorry for your troubles, but I fail to see why you are here, madam,” he said as solicitously as he could. “Perhaps the Admiralty…”
“No, the Admiralty is in London. You’re here and I’m here to ask the army for help because the fucking navy is no help,” said Beauty and, indeed, her face was growing redder. “We took casualties in the last attack and now I’ve got to get four people out of Algiers in a week and if the janissaries get at us again I don’t know how it will go this time. I’m working on a plan but I need soldiers, maybe a hundred of your best fighters, to come with us to Algiers. I’ll feed ’em and pay ’em but I need their help. I need your help.”
At that, Bisanz’s eyebrows went up and he blustered “That’s quite impossible,” and “No, no, no,” until Beauty rose and stood over his desk and looked down on him.
“Colonel Bisanz,” she said quietly, “one of the people we’re trying to save is an eight-year-old boy who was snatched off our ship. He’s going to auction.”
At that, the colonel closed his mouth and set his jaw tightly. His entire body seemed to grow rigid and tense. He was well aware of the fates of many young boys and girls sold as slaves at Barbary auctions. He rose without a glance to Beauty and walked to the window to look out at the soldiers drilling in the center of the quad. What this woman was asking, of course, was unrealistic in the extreme and in no way comported with his orders. What she wanted was also beyond his authority to grant. Only court martial could come to an officer who dared consider stepping beyond his command. He knew Admiral Lord Keith was away and that the meek Captain Elliott would be no help if this woman approached him, which she probably had. So, no doubt in desperation, she’d come to him. She couldn’t have known he had a young son in England himself, could she?
A minute went by. Then more.
Bisanz continued his meditation by the window. The chances of Fallon getting into Algiers and out again alive were basically nil, much less getting out with two slaves. Algiers was a heavily guarded, walled city. This Fallon fellow was on a hopeless mission. But, Jesus, he kept coming back to the boy, picturing his own son’s face on the little fellow.
The sergeant outside was still shouting, the soldiers were still drilling, everything was as it should be except this fierce woman was in his office likely drilling holes into his back with her eyes, no doubt wondering if he was the kind of officer who could be bound by a higher code than his orders. God in heaven, he thought.
He was still looking out the window when he bowed his head and closed his eyes and whispered yes. He was exactly that kind of officer.
And then a voice behind him said softly: “Thank you, colonel. And please call me Beauty.”
FIFTY-THREE
FALLON AND AJA HAD BEEN LED AWAY AT DAWN TOWARDS THE MOLE TO carry stone by cart to the curved tip. The breakwater was being enlarged, presumably so even more cannons could be placed there. Fallon and Aja were in chains, their legs bound together.
The manacles on Fallon’s ankles rubbed the skin off in very little time, and a quick glance at Aja’s ankles showed they were bloody, as well.
It was still early morning.
Fallon looked at the city of Algiers rising up the hill to the south, and he could make out men and women walking in the narrow streets. The sounds of camels braying and goats bleating floated down to the jetty, and he thought he could even smell strong coffee.
The pilot boat was on station outside the harbor, its flags and ribbons in full force in the stout breeze. Fallon recognized it as a French galiote, or something very like it, a smallish ship with four crew and four sets of oars meant to carry light cargo in its relatively shallow holds. At the tip of its lateen sail a red streamer blew off to the sky. At night it berthed at the quay and was tied down snug before curfew but, like the slaves, it was up working at dawn.
As surreptitiously as he could, Fallon scanned the harbor and counted the ships anchored there. There were quite a few corsairs mixed in with the fishing vessels, while at the quay a Turkish flagged vessel was just leaving. It was massive, easily one of the biggest merchant vessels Fallon had ever seen. No doubt it traded throughout the Mediterranean carrying livestock and lumber and all manner of mercantile items from Tangier to the Levant. As it was warped away it revealed a ship lying beyond it at the quay, and Fallon involuntarily jerked his head back in surprise and nudged Aja to have a look. It was a large xebec with a distinctive snake’s head at the bow.
Serpent!
Fallon could see stores being brought aboard the ship even as repairs seemed to be in progress on the starboard side, no doubt due to Cully’s broadside. There was no sign of Zabana that Fallon could see, but the ship was quite far away. He would be around.
Fallon wondered momentarily if the presence of Serpent would change his nascent plan to escape. Only if Zabana discovered he was a prisoner, he decided. He thought of the guillotine on board the ship and wondered idly how often it had been used, but before he could dwell further the overseer grunted and Fallon turned his attention back to the rocks.
“Zabana Reis,” said Mustapha Pasha, “you have brought back slaves for me, which is good. But you have lost half your janissaries, which is not good. How did this happen?”
Zabana had to be careful how he answered, not knowing what the British schooner captain had already told the dey. He could not take a chance on a lie.
“We came upon an American merchantman near the Strait. We were both becalmed so we rowed to intercept her. But a British ship was riding the breeze down to us and came to the American’s aid. There was a huge battle and we took what slaves we could, but the wicked British fired grapeshot into our janissaries and killed many of them in one broadside. We took several Americans and one British boy.”
“Yes,” said the dey contemptuously, “if you had known the British schooner carried gold perhaps you would have fought harder.”
Zabana felt the venom in the dey’s words. Gold!
“I have interviewed the British captain,” continued the imperious dey, “whose name is Fallon. He entered Algiers with his second mate on foot after your battle and was found walking around the city. Reason has convinced him to send word to his ship to bring the gold to us.” Here the dey smiled; it was one of the few times Zabana had ever seen his teeth.
“You must order your corsairs to let the ship pass. Then when it is in the harbor you will have your second chance to take her. It should not be so difficult then.”
Zabana felt his face burn at these last words, but he could say nothing, make no excuses, so he remained silent, his eyes blazing. This was the basis of the dey’s power, he knew, manipulation and humiliation.
Seeing Zabana’s face the dey added one last stab.
“Zabana Reis, I will send you more janissaries. Use them wisely and carefully. They are not inexhaustible, nor is my patience. And do not think to harm the British captain, if it is in your mind to take out your own impotence on him. He may be important in some way to lure his ship into the harbor. I want him alive and willing when the time comes.”
> Zabana’s body clenched in embarrassment. The dey’s insinuations and humiliations had wounded him deeply and he vowed he would have his revenge.
But first, Fallon. He would protect him, yes. But then he would kill him in the worst way imaginable.
FIFTY-FOUR
THE AVAILABLE CHARTS, MAPS AND WRITTEN ACCOUNTS OF TRAVELERS and explorers to North Africa showed Algiers was surrounded by the largest hot desert in the known world, the Sahara. At three and a half million square miles it was over thirty-two times the size of Great Britain. And considerably warmer.
As Fallon and Aja worked on the breakwater each day the breeze off the desert felt increasingly warm, such that the air seemed to burn their noses and throats. Sweat poured from their bodies and they stopped often to drink copious amounts of water supplied by their guards.
Fallon could still see Serpent across the harbor but the repair work seemed to have been completed for there were no actual work parties about. He had yet to see Zabana.
Each day was the same as sleds of rocks would be brought from the mines, dragged by scarecrow slaves to the quay where Fallon and Aja would drag them out to the breakwater and tumble them to the edges and down into the water to gradually make the mole wider. Sled after sled, rock upon rock. Fallon and Aja spoke very little, for they needed all their strength just to get through each day. At night they were returned to their pen to be reunited with Wilhelm Visser and Little Eddy, so tired they could barely move.
As they ate dinner near the end of their first week of captivity Fallon knew, tired as he was, he had to work on the plan for their attempted escape. Beauty should be off the mole in a few days. If she had gotten his message. If she had understood it.
He paused for a moment. Would she arrive on time? And then he smiled a tired smile. Of course she would.
“Let me tell you what I have been thinking,” Fallon said as they nursed their little dinners. He told them about his note to Beauty with the hoped-for secret message and his idea to steal a boat, providing they could escape from their pen.
Aja, well familiar with Fallon’s ways, managed a wide smile. “I watched you watch the harbor, captain, sir,” he said. “I have been waiting for this moment.”
Visser looked visibly afraid. “We will only have this one chance, captain,” he said. “If we don’t succeed I can’t imagine what they will do to us. These people know how to torture people until there is no will left to live.”
“I believe you, Wilhelm,” said Fallon earnestly. “I know what we are risking. But hopefully we have a plan of sorts in motion and we must do our part to see it through. It is our chance to be free, your chance to be free and to see your son. Are you willing to try Wilhelm?”
Visser looked at Fallon and slowly nodded. “Maybe I can help,” he said. “The guards don’t concern themselves much with me on the docks. Tell me what I can do.”
“Well,” said Fallon, “can you bring back anything under your tunic that we can use?”
“What are you looking for?” asked Visser.
“I don’t know,” answered Fallon with a smile. “A knife or a musket would be nice.”
“How about a cannon?” asked Aja, also smiling.
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Visser with a grin. “But a cannon will be difficult, though worthy.”
“Bring anything you can that you think we can use to lure the midnight guard inside, Wilhelm,” said Fallon. “Now, Little Eddy, let me ask you a question.”
Little Eddy’s eyes got wide and the boy sat upright, anticipating a role in the escape.
“You were the fastest boy up the mast on Rascal,” said Fallon. “Like a monkey you were. Tell me, can you climb these walls?” He nodded towards the stockade walls of the pen. They were long poles, set inches apart and perhaps fifteen feet tall.
Little Eddy stood up and walked to the wall with the door. He stood with his back to the group, staring at the poles. Finally, he approached the wall more closely and began trying to insert his hands into the cracks between poles. He was a small boy for his age, with small hands and arms, and he found a pole with enough space on either side that he could push his hands through.
Suddenly his feet were off the ground and on the wall, his toes wrapped around the pole pushing him up and up. He struggled once, getting a hand stuck, but managed to free himself and then he was at the top. Little Eddy, the acrobat.
The little crowd below him wanted to cheer but dared not. Instead, Fallon whispered as loudly as he could, “Well done!”
And Little Eddy scampered down.
Now it all depended on what Wilhelm Visser could fit under his tunic.
At dawn the next morning Rascal weighed under a sky that came with violent streaks of red. Barclay commented on it, mumbling the sailor’s aphorism: Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning, sailors take warning. He knew what they were seeing was dust in the eastern sky and that dirty weather was coming.
The wind had come east southeast, and Beauty’s decision to sail sooner rather than later to Tipasa seemed prescient, for it would give the crew a chance to rest before the final push to Algiers. In truth, the crew couldn’t have waited another day in Gibraltar. They were more than anxious to be away.
Colonel Bisanz had shown up last evening with one hundred of his finest soldiers, all volunteers, each man equipped to fight a small war. Beauty had welcomed each soldier aboard as Rascal’s boats brought them out and, at the last, she had gone ashore to personally thank Bisanz. She found him standing by himself on the dock in the twilight, his men gone, alone.
“Colonel,” she began, “I don’t know how to thank you for your support and these volunteers. God willing we won’t have any trouble, but I pity the poor devils who try to stop us.”
“I pray you won’t need to fight to free your people, Beauty. The corsairs are ruthless; but I don’t have to tell you that. All I ask is to bring my boys home with yours, if you can. But remember, they volunteered for the mission. It’s them to thank, not me.”
She studied his face in the dim light, a face with bright eyes and that spectacular mustache, and smiled.
“I thank God and you, colonel. And then the boys. In that order. Goodbye.” And then Beauty did something she’d never done before in her life.
She kissed a man.
Renegade’s progress had slowed considerably as she was forced to tack against the building easterly. In consequence, they were a day later than Jones had predicted arriving in Gibraltar.
He scanned the harbor for any sign of Rascal but she was nowhere to be seen. That was not surprising, just disappointing. What was surprising was seeing Lord Keith’s flagship, Artemis, 74, riding at anchor in the crowded roadstead.
Renegade had barely found a spot to anchor when her number flew from the flagship with the signal: captain repair onboard. Jones went below to quickly change into his best uniform and alert Sir William to make himself ready to be rowed across to Artemis. At the last he remembered Admiral Davies’ letter for Lord Keith and then, checking himself in the small mirror and brushing his unruly hair, he pronounced himself as good as he was going to look. Back on deck, he waited while Sir William’s dunnage was lowered into his captain’s gig, along with Sir William, and in very little time they were approaching the massive hulk of the flagship and being hailed to come aboard.
Jones went up the side, his heart in his throat at seeing the famous Lord Keith, the hero of Saldanha Bay for capturing an entire Dutch squadron, and now commander-in-chief of the Mediterranean station. He and Sir William were shown to Keith’s great cabin by a rather bent first lieutenant and found themselves in a room of glittering gold from the epaulettes of several captains already there.
Jones and Sir William were introduced to the flag captain, Burrell, and Captain Elliott of Mischief, who looked pale and nervous, and finally Lord Keith himself, resplendent in his Royal Navy uniform and shock of white hair. He had an erect bearing and strong jaw but his eyes were wise and wide.
At this everyone in the great cabin laughed, for all knew the average jack could do without anything, face any deprivation except the loss of rum.
“May I pay a special compliment to Captain Jones, sir?” said Sir William. “He not only brought me safely across the Atlantic but he took a prize on the way. And without a shot!”
“Good Lord, Captain Jones!” exclaimed Lord Keith. “I am all aback to hear how you did that! Pray let’s have a glass so you can tell the story.” And with that the steward brought out several bottles of claret as Jones told the story of capturing Honneur as modestly as he could.
“Well,” said Jones a bit timidly, “we chanced upon a small French frigate and were able to run her down easily, for Renegade has a clean bottom. The prisoners are located below decks and well-guarded. Sir William was kind enough to help me interview the captain and review his orders since he is fluent in French. I brought them with me and, oh, and this is a letter from Admiral Davies for you personally, sir.”
Jones withdrew the papers from his breast pocket and handed them across the massive desk to Lord Keith who looked a question at Sir William.
“The capitaine’s orders concerned bringing back French officials from the Caribbean to Paris, no more,” responded Sir William to the unasked question. “I doubt if he had the imagination or courage for mischief.”