Barbarians on an Ancient Sea

by William Westbrook

  At this Lord Keith relaxed and put the French capitaine’s orders aside for the moment.

  “Captain Burrell, will you please see that the prisoners are removed to the prison ashore?” said Lord Keith. “They are a damned nuisance but the prize is worth it, no doubt.” And then he addressed himself to Jones.

  “Captain Jones, I will gladly buy Honneur into the service, of course. The prize agent is fair-minded and you and your crew should profit handsomely as there was no damage to the ship.”

  Jones blushed radiantly.

  “And now gentlemen, if you will excuse me a moment while I read this note from Admiral Davies I would be grateful,” said Lord Keith, rising to go to the stern windows where the light was better. “Pray help yourself to more wine.”

  The steward went man to man and poured the claret carefully, re-filling the Admiral’s glass which sat upon the desk half empty. Jones was careful not to do more than sip, wanting to make a good impression on these exalted figures. He stole a glance at Elliott, who seemed to recede to the edges of the room.

  After a few moments, Lord Keith turned from the stern windows and took his seat again. His face was still kind but his eyes had narrowed a bit.

  “Captain Elliott, Admiral Davies tells me that a privateer named Fallon should have entered these waters from Antigua and I am wondering if you spoke to him at all.”

  Elliott looked startled to be called upon but, gathering himself, he sniffed before answering. “Yes, I welcomed him aboard the first time he entered Gibraltar. I can only report that Captain Fallon told the most fantastic story of sinking two Algerian corsairs just days before and I immediately took him for a fabulist. He was only in a schooner, after all, and we all know too well the reputation of corsairs. At any rate, he asked for my help and protection to Algiers, but of course I refused based on my orders from you to remain on station. I must say I found Fallon hot-tempered and rude.”

  “Did Fallon mention that he was attempting to ransom an old man from slavery?” asked Keith, his eyes squinting a bit more. “As for sinking two corsairs, Admiral Davies gives Fallon his highest approbation and claims that he is as clever a captain as they come. Perhaps the captain’s story was not as far-fetched as it sounded.”

  At that, Elliot blanched. He was none too tanned anyway, preferring to spend most of his time in the Royal Navy in his cabin.

  “You said Fallon returned to Gibraltar again, Captain Elliot?” continued Lord Keith without waiting for an answer to his last question. “Did you endeavor to find out why?”

  “I did not, sir,” mumbled Elliot. “I was very busy with affairs on board ship. The word on the lower deck, however, was that Rascal’s crew claimed they fought another corsair to the east. Fallon also had a prize crew aboard an American merchant vessel, Mary of Dundee. Surely that beggars explanation, as well. At any rate, within a day or two he had left again. When the ship came back a third time it stayed for a week, I suppose. I was told the captain was no longer aboard but I can’t vouchsafe for that. Then, two nights ago, Colonel Bisanz brought troops from the garrison to the shore and they were loaded onto the privateer. The next morning she sailed away. Why Bisanz did that I couldn’t say, but it was highly irregular.”

  Lord Keith took a moment to digest this information, tapping Davies’ letter on the desk and looking squarely at Jones.

  “Captain Jones,” he asked, “are you acquainted with Captain Fallon? I realize the Caribbean is a large sea but I am curious.”

  Jones didn’t blink, for Captain Elliott’s description of Fallon as a fantastic liar had infuriated him. “Yes sir,” he answered as evenly as he could, “I have served alongside him with Admiral Davies and can attest to his bravery and… and cunning. He is the cleverest captain I know.” Here Jones shot a quick look to Elliott, whose face had recovered its natural color and now moved on to red.

  “How was it you served alongside a privateer, may I ask,” said Lord Keith with a hint of skepticism in his voice.

  “Captain Fallon was an informal advisor to Admiral Davies, sir,” said Jones. “He looked at situations from a privateer’s point of view and I believe Admiral Davies valued his opinion in the highest. It was Fallon’s idea to trick Coeur de France into leaving Port-a-Prince to fight. The plan was all his.” Jones had tactfully left out his own role in luring the ship out. But he knew that the sinking of the French flagship was well-known throughout the Royal Navy.

  “I heard Coeur went down with all hands, is that true?” asked Keith. “I believe she carried 100 guns?”

  “All true, sir,” replied Jones quietly. He fidgeted in his chair, his wine untouched, fearing he had been too forthcoming with praise for his friend in an effort to defend him from Elliott’s slur.

  “Sir William,” asked Lord Keith, “do you have anything to add to this conversation?”

  “Only that I met Captain Fallon once at Admiral Davies’ invitation and endeavored to acquaint him with what I knew of the Barbary situation.” A pause. “I found his questions insightful and direct. From what Davies told me beforehand, I can believe Captain Jones’ account. I realize we have a treaty with the dey, but it seems to be unravelling.”

  This seemed to slam the door in Elliott’s face and he found he could say nothing in response except, “I was only following my orders, sir.”

  Lord Keith looked at Elliott sadly. He really was a dolt of a captain and Keith knew it and had known it for some time.

  “Quite,” he said at last, and endeavored to swallow his disappointment in one of his officers.

  The topic turned to lighter subjects at last, the best clarets ever taken from a French prize, the peculiarities of a folluca’s sailing rig, the increasing difficulty of pressing men to man Great Britain’s many ships. At last the little meeting came to a close and the captains rose to leave to return to their ships.

  “Captain Jones,” said Lord Keith, “may I ask you to stay a moment, sir?”

  Jones could only stay behind, of course, though he feared a reprimand for crossing swords with one of Lord Keith’s captains. Sir William lingered, as well, but of course he was staying aboard.

  As Burrell closed the cabin door behind him, Lord Keith bade his two remaining guests to sit again as he picked up Davies’ letter and seemed to re-read at least parts of it.

  “I don’t know Admiral Davies personally, you understand,” he said as he looked at Jones. “But I know of him, to be sure, and I know he is held in high regard in Whitehall. So I am inclined to believe that what he says in his letter is true. He is saying, to put it succinctly, that Fallon is his irreplaceable ally in the Caribbean and should the opportunity arise to render him assistance in his quest to ransom an Algerian slave he hopes we will do so. It is a glowing letter, to be sure. He admits to Fallon’s unorthodox ways and ideas that at first seem far-fetched. And Davies said something striking: he said that Fallon was his imagination. I am not used to modest Admirals in the Royal Navy.”

  It was then that Lord Keith looked at Sir William and smiled a knowing smile.

  “I keep my own imagination close at hand,” he said quietly.

  Sir William barely nodded to acknowledge the compliment. “If I may, Lord Keith,” he said, “what else did Admiral Davies say that has you so interested in Fallon’s well-being?”

  Lord Keith looked down at the letter in his hands and then up to Sir William. It was a good question, and Sir William was right to ask it. After all, the two of them had much to discuss about the Mediterranean as it was.

  “Admiral Davies said that if there was one man who would have ideas to disrupt any potential alliance between France and Algiers it would be Fallon. He staked his reputation on it. Which would seem to make Fallon a very valuable asset, indeed, given the Admiralty’s concerns.”

  Sir William leaned back in his chair. Jones sat rock still in his, not deigning to speak or even move.

  “Captain Elliott said that Colonel Bisanz had loaded troops onto Rascal before she sailed, and that Fall
on was not aboard,” said Sir William. “I am wondering why, and what it all means. And I am wondering if a conversation with the colonel wouldn’t tell us more than we know now if, indeed, you have the opportunity to intercede on Fallon’s behalf.”

  Sir William, serving up some imagination to Lord Keith.

  The three men arrived at the quay after a bumpy row in the Admiral’s gig, for the harbor was feeling the beginning of unsettled weather. Lord Keith was well acquainted with Colonel Bisanz and liked the man, as did Sir William, but both were quite in the dark about his actions and wanted to get the full picture of what had gone on with Rascal and some account of why Fallon was not aboard any longer. For Jones’ part he was honored to be in their inner circle and kept his mouth shut.

  They arrived at the quad and then proceeded immediately to find Colonel Bisanz who, as he had with Beauty, welcomed them formally. It was odd for a Royal Navy admiral and British army officer to ever be in the same room with each other and the meeting began tentatively.

  “I understand you brought troops to the shore two nights ago to be loaded aboard Rascal, a British privateer,” Lord Keith began. “Can you tell me why, pray? I am not here to challenge your actions in any way, colonel. But I am developing a personal interest in Rascal.”

  “If you know the ship, Admiral,” answered Bisanz, “then you might also know her first mate, Beauty McFarland. If she had asked for a thousand troops I might have given them to her.”

  At that Jones laughed in spite of himself, then quickly settled, embarrassed.

  “I don’t know the ship itself, colonel,” said Lord Keith with a smile. “But somehow I am not surprised that she carries a woman as first mate. I imagine she is formidable. Captain Jones?”

  “I know Beauty very well,” said Jones. “And I wouldn’t refuse her anything either. I fear I would be in danger if I did.”

  Bisanz related the story Beauty had told him in great detail, knowing Lord Keith would want the full picture. At the news of the kidnapping of a ship’s boy named Little Eddy Jones involuntarily recoiled, as did Lord Keith, for they both knew the tales surrounding children sold at auction. Next, the story of Fallon and Aja’s capture was on the table, with Jones interrupting to describe Aja for Lord Keith. After that, the admiral rose and paced the small office while Bisanz told of the meeting with Beauty and how she’d asked for volunteers to sail to Algiers based on Fallon’s message and instructions.

  “Instructions, you say?” asked Jones. “Captain Fallon was specific?”

  “Yes,” said Bisanz. “Beauty said he was quite specific about when she was to arrive off the mole at the harbor’s entrance.”

  For the first time since hearing the story Jones smiled. Lord Keith noticed.

  “Fallon has a plan, admiral,” he said. “I don’t know what it is but I will wager my pay that Beauty has tipped to it and knows what she’s doing.”

  Lord Keith shook his head in something like wonder. He was beginning to understand Admiral Davies’ respect for Fallon’s ingenuity. But it seemed he’d gotten himself captured, along with his second mate, and now his first mate was off to help him with a ship full of British soldiers and it seemed to Lord Keith that nothing could be done further.

  He didn’t see Sir William’s glance to Jones, and the nod from Jones in answer.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  RASCAL TACKED EASTWARD, THEN MADE LONG BOARDS SOUTH FOR MOST of the day, making what distance she could against building wind and seas. Barclay estimated they would be off Tipasa past midnight the next day, whereupon Beauty planned to heave-to until it was time to leave in order to be off the mole at dawn. On time per Fallon’s note, but for what was unclear.

  The volunteers were all sitting on deck cleaning their muskets and sleeping after the cook had served up a sailor’s feast of stewed pork with vegetables and, to top it off, duff pudding. The pudding had been Barclay’s idea, for he was a particular pudding aficionado.

  As evening approached Beauty checked the course and speed, noted the increase in wind, and retreated to her cabin for a late dinner of her own and to read, for perhaps the hundredth time, Fallon’s message. She had not looked at it since leaving Gibraltar, preferring to put it out of her mind and concentrate on things at hand so as to see it again later with fresh eyes. She poured herself a glass of wine and sat at her desk, the message open before her. As she touched the sea dog around her neck her eyes fell on the oft-read passage:

  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.

  She had certainly taken aboard all that she needed, at least to her own satisfaction, by getting the colonel’s volunteers.

  From what she could see, all that was left was to meet the pilot ship and be guided into the harbor. How the hell was that going to rescue anybody? What was supposed to happen after that?

  And then, as she read the passage again, her hand froze as she raised the wine glass to her lips.

  The last sentence didn’t say anything about being guided into the harbor.

  Morning found Fallon and Aja working side by side on the mole, Fallon straining to see Wilhelm Visser laboring on the docks across the harbor. But he was not to be seen in the glare of the sun or the shadows cast by the big ships. For the past several days Visser had been unloading only grain, so there had been nothing to smuggle back to the pen. Fallon prayed that he would bring back something useful that night that they could build a plan around. If not, they would have to try to overpower the guards at dinner, a risky move because one guard stayed back, outside the pen, while the other guard delivered the dinner inside. Visser said the outside guard always held a cocked musket.

  Dinner was the only time the pen was unlocked in the evening; the guard who came around midnight just looked inside through the stockade walls to see that all was well.

  The wind began to strengthen in the afternoon and the flags and bunting on the ships at anchor stood out stiffly. It was a furnace of a wind, blown across hundreds or thousands of miles of desert, full of dirt and grit. It became untenable to work with bare faces and eyes closed against wind. The guards came for them early and they were taken back to the pens.

  It was not much better there. The wind came hot and dry through the stockade walls, and Fallon, Aja, and Little Eddy all huddled with their heads down and their eyes closed to keep the debris at bay. But they could hear the lock snap open and squinted to see Wilhelm Visser being shown into the pen by his guards.

  He entered the pen with his head down. Fallon looked closely at him, hoping for a hint of success, but the old man’s bearing didn’t change even after the guards had walked away.

  “I have brought very little from the docks,” Visser said dejectedly. “Today there was much work to do and the guards were unusually vigilant with us. We were unloading some gifts to the dey from an Italian merchant.”

  He reached under his tunic and brought out a cloth sack. From within it he withdrew a wooden ladle used to serve out shipboard gruel, and a silver urn with curved handles.

  “It was all I could scrounge from the holds of the ship we were unloading,” Visser said softly. “It isn’t much to work with, I know.”

  Fallon looked at what Visser had smuggled from the ship and his heart sank. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it was more than this. Whatever disappointment he felt, however, was doubled on Visser’s face, and he forced himself to smile.

  “It’s perfect,” he lied, and then in spite of himself he laughed out loud.

  The little group looked down at the purloined objects, the dust swirling around them, and they all laughed, laughed like madmen in a mad world. Then Aja stopped laughing and picked up the wooden ladle. He looked at it a moment, and then broke it over his knee. The wooden handle snapped off with a sharp, splintered tip.

  “I have an idea, captain sir,” he said. And Fallon and everyone else leaned i
n to hear it above the shrieking wind.

  Just after midnight the guard made his rounds of the pens, holding a lantern aloft, checking the locks and looking in at the sleeping bodies. Most of the straw pallets had blown apart and the prisoners were asleep on the dirt floor. The guard counted them as best he could in the shafts of light thrown through the stockade walls before going on to the next pen.

  At Fallon’s pen the guard paused, for near the middle of the floor, just a few yards inside the gate, the lantern’s light seemed to glint off something silver. Something like a vase or urn. Yes, an urn, and one of the prisoners seemed to be praying over it, or chanting something unintelligible. The other prisoners seemed to be asleep along the sides of the pen. This was all very strange to the guard, and he debated with himself over what to do. How could the urn have come here? he wondered. If it was silver it was worth more than a thousand days of working!

  Now Aja, who had been chanting, lifted the urn into the air, into a shaft of light from the lantern, seemingly ignoring the guard. He said a few more words, put it back on the floor and backed away to the rear of the pen.

  The guard hesitated, but greed was a powerful emotion. He decided it would do no harm to open the gate to see better. The lock snapped open and he stepped inside, the lantern held high in one hand, his scimitar in the other.

  The urn glowed brightly in his lantern’s light.

  The guard stood still a moment and looked around the pen, but no one moved. One of the men seemed to be snoring, in fact. Three more steps and he could reach the urn.

  He took the first step before Little Eddy dropped out of the sky onto his back and he stumbled to the ground. Immediately, Fallon rose and leapt on top of the guard and drove the ladle’s splintered handle into his neck.

  It was over so quickly that Fallon and Aja were momentarily speechless. It was Wilhelm Visser who pounded on their backs and brought them around to reality. Little Eddy whooped before they quieted him. Slowly they dragged the guard to the rear of the pen and wrapped him with a blanket. Then, with a last look around, they locked the gate behind them.