Barbarians on an Ancient Sea

by William Westbrook

  Beauty smiled and blushed simultaneously.

  In moments she led Lord Keith down the companionway to Fallon’s cabin and found him sitting upright—against Colquist’s orders—in a chair by the stern windows.

  “Captain Fallon,” said Lord Keith, “don’t attempt to get up I implore you. Your surgeon would have both our necks if those stitches I hear you have should open. I am content to sit on the stern cushions and I promise I will only be a few minutes.”

  With that, Lord Keith sat down and Beauty discretely left the cabin.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord,” said Fallon. “I have heard so much about you over the years. Your exploits reach Bermuda, where I am from.”

  “And I have heard a great deal about you, captain,” said Lord Keith. “Admiral Davies speaks very highly of you, as does Sir William and, well, everyone seems to have something interesting to say about you.”

  Fallon laughed and shifted uneasily in his chair.

  “No doubt Captain Jones has filled you in on his trip across the Atlantic to return Sir William to the Mediterranean. He even took a French frigate on the way, and without a shot! Now, I will take you into my confidence as to why that trip was necessary. The Admiralty believes Bonaparte is attempting to enlist the dey of Algiers in a scheme to blockade Gibraltar. Presumably the siege would mean Bonaparte would have free rein over this sea that he seems to covet. Sir William is now endeavoring to find out how far along the plans are but the threat is real. Sir William’s sources tell him that the dey is supportive of the idea, if only to enrich himself, though he has demanded proof of Bonaparte’s sincerity. I believe there is to be a down payment to show good faith.”

  Fallon took a moment to absorb the information Lord Keith shared. It didn’t take much imagination to visualize Gibraltar under siege from French ships-of-the-line and the dey’s corsairs, with Britain unable to muster a strong defense.

  “How many ships do you have at your disposal, my lord?” asked Fallon, getting right to the nub of the matter.

  “I have four frigates and my flagship, captain,” said Lord Keith, and he thought he could hear Fallon’s mind working. “Two of the frigates are on station in Genoa to help the Austrians and the other two are here. I believe you met Captain Elliott of Mischief?”

  Fallon only nodded, not wanting his face to give away his feelings about Elliott. Lord Keith watched him closely.

  “I am here because Admiral Davies sent word that you might be helpful in this situation,” continued Lord Keith, “and now perhaps doubly so since I understand you were a prisoner of the dey’s before making a remarkable escape. The story is up and down the waterfront.”

  If Fallon was moved by Lord Keith’s flattering words he didn’t show it; instead, his eyes were fixed on an unseen horizon beyond the stern windows. Lord Keith looked at those eyes now, and they seemed brighter than when he’d first entered the cabin. What Lord Keith couldn’t see or, obviously, sense was the hair standing up on Fallon’s arms, as well.

  “Lord Keith,” Fallon said softly after a few moments, “you know what I would do if I were you?”

  Sir William sat at Fallon’s desk with quill and paper as Fallon dictated, in French, from his chair by the stern windows. Fallon chose his words carefully; they needed to be firm and utterly convincing and, hopefully, hidden between the lines, a hint of outrage. As Sir William wrote, a thin smile crossed his face.

  For a Bermuda privateer, Fallon was really very good at this sort of thing.

  SIXTY

  ONE WEEK LATER THE FRENCH VENUS CLASS FRIGATE HONNEUR ARRIVED off the mole in Algiers harbor at twilight. The dey had been alerted and clapped his hands in anticipation, for this was the sign he’d been waiting for—he was soon to be the richest man in all the Ottoman Empire.

  The crew of the pilot boat—the new pilot boat—sailed out of the harbor to guide the frigate inside to an anchorage. Because darkness was closing in, they could not see Renegade lurking out of sight barely a mile away. Barclay and Beauty were aboard, having sailed in these waters before, and the sailing master aboard Renegade was glad of it as he trembled at the thought of navigating so close to the Barbary coast.

  Meanwhile, in the qasba, the dey sent for his prettiest concubines and ordered a private feast to be prepared for the French capitaine. His eyes were alight with greed and seemed to burn as brightly as any torch in the Audience Hall. He had not mourned Zabana’s death because he knew him to be wicked and grasping and, ultimately, disloyal and a threat to the dey’s health. But he had grieved the loss of gold when that pernicious Fallon had escaped. Now, however, that was forgotten. The dey had demanded that Bonaparte pay him a fortune; no, two fortunes for his help in blockading Gibraltar. He’d also demanded a token payment in advance, and now came a frigate carrying it. Surely, reasoned the dey, Bonaparte would not have sent a ship if the answer was no.

  The pilot boat approached Honneur with all flags and banners flying and if it seemed odd that the frigate trailed her ship’s boats behind her no one on the pilot boat remarked on it. Obviously, the French capitaine was anxious to go ashore, and who could blame him?

  The twilight was giving way to darkness as Honneur sailed past the tip of the mole behind the pilot boat and, at the order from Jones, opened fire with a robust broadside at the harbor fortifications. The frigate’s bow chaser joined in with a clean hit on the pilot boat, not over 100 yards ahead. Quickly, Jones ordered the small crew aboard Honneur to reload and run out and get off another unanswered broadside, the bright flashes from the muzzles lighting up the side of the ship.

  The leadsman called out the depths and Jones took note that it would soon be time to abandon ship. A minute passed, then two, and now there were bright flashes from the mole as the Algerians collected their wits and their gun crews and fired back.

  “Fire!” yelled Jones and again the frigate’s broadside roared out, though where the balls landed was not clear in the darkness.

  Jones found a moment to smile at the thought of the false orders Fallon had so carefully dictated and Sir William had so beautifully written and which he had secreted in the capitaine’s desk drawer.

  But there was not a moment to lose. He called for the men to lash the wheel and abandon the ship. The shore batteries fired again, and he could feel Honneur stagger from several hits. Looking around, he gave the order to unlock the hatches over the holds before following the last of his men overboard into the waiting boats.

  The French prisoners clambered on deck to a barrage of fire from the shore batteries and, bewildered and confused, they rushed to the familiar guns where they found shot and powder and slow match waiting. They had no idea where they were, of course, but what they did know was they were under fire and all their training said load the guns and fight back. The capitaine wasted no time in ordering his men to fire into the blackness.

  Which they did, right up until the time that Honneur ran aground and they found themselves boarded by hundreds of soldiers in red hats.

  For the second time in little more than a month, the French capitaine surrendered.

  SIXTY-ONE

  FALLON SAT IN A CHAIR AT THE STERN OF HIS SHIP NURSING HIS COFFEE and trying not to stretch the tender scar across his body. It had been two weeks since Renegade had returned from Algiers and, during that time, Rascal had gotten her masts in and rigging sent up. He had Lord Keith to thank for the dock yard’s sense of urgency. Thanks to the Admiral, Fallon should be back to Bermuda just in time for his wedding. Thank God for that, thought Fallon.

  The sky was a solid blue globe and the sea reflected the color but flecked it with whitecaps. Rascal was racing towards Bermuda, towards an imaginary finish line which was off St. George’s harbor. The wind was coming southeast and was pushing the ship along like it knew speed was important. He glanced across the sparkling water towards Renegade bounding along, as well, keeping pace under reduced sail.

  The Vissers were gathered on the starboard rail, still using every moment t
o catch up with each other’s lives. They would be awhile doing it, for there was much in the details that would be thought of in random moments over time.

  Little Eddy skylarked in the rigging with the other ship’s boys, demonstrating the resiliency of youth and the ability to live in the present. He never knew what likely lay in store for him in Algiers and thankfully he never would. Aja watched him with a smile on his face, his arm still in a light sling but almost healed, according to Colquist.

  Beauty bantered with Barclay at the binnacle as usual, each giving as good as they got on every topic from weather to waves. She wore her sea dog necklace with more confidence in its powers than ever before. It had been tested.

  Down below decks was Caleb Visser’s ransom money, the gold that had been salvaged and never spent. Well, not all of it anyway. Visser had insisted on paying Colonel Bisanz’s soldiers handsomely and Bisanz had at last relented and allowed it. Caleb and Beauty had gone to the garrison to thank him on behalf of the ship and Fallon, and mourn with him the loss of fifteen of his finest men.

  Sir William and Lord Keith had come aboard before they’d weighed with the welcome news that the dey was apparently furious with Bonaparte for Honneur’s random act of violence against his nation. Sir William’s sources reported that the fake orders to attack Algiers which Fallon had dictated had quashed any thoughts of believing the capitaine’s quite fantastic story of being duped by the British.

  Fallon sat in the sunshine and summoned the past few month’s experiences, one by one, to parade past his mind. Not so much to relive life, for there were too many moments he had no wish to relive, but to put them indelibly in his memory so as not to forget what he’d seen and felt in a world far away and so alien to his own.

  He had received help all along this journey, certainly from Davies and, at the last, Jones. But earlier from poor Woodson to Dingle to Truxton and Colonel Bisanz and, of course, the good Friar Orturo who helped him and Aja get into Algiers.

  He recalled the Friar’s words about the wisdom of letting life come to you and accepting it without trying to control it. He’d said it was futile to put a howling wind in a box. Fallon could understand the point as a matter of philosophy, but letting life have its way had never been his way. Events weren’t inevitable in his world. If they were, he’d be dead several times over and Wilhelm Visser and Little Eddy would still be slaves in Algiers. He shook his head at the thought.

  It was never easy, but sometimes you could let the wind back out of the box. And, as Beauty would say, let the fucker howl.

  AFTERWORD

  In 1805, Mustapha Pasha was assassinated by one of his own janissaries.

  In 1816, a combined British and Dutch fleet bombarded Algiers in a successful attempt to free 3000 slaves.

  In 1847, the taking of Christian slaves by Algerian corsairs finally ended when France conquered Algeria.