by Seth Hunter
Not that it seemed likely that they would ever be called upon to do so. During all the time they had been off the shores of Tripoli, not a single vessel of the Pasha’s fleet had ventured out of the harbour. And even if they had, Imlay had given strict instructions that they were not to be attacked or given the slightest provocation. Not while he still had hopes of succeeding with his negotiations.
He and Cathcart had spent the last few nights ashore and Nathan could only hope that they had made some progress. It was now mid-June and apart from the shortage of powder and shot, he was also worried about running out of food and drink. Cathcart had obtained a quantity of wine from some unknown source ashore and Imlay had said there would be no problem in securing food, albeit at inflated prices, but Nathan thought it would be unwise to count on it. He had enough for another two weeks before he would have to start rationing. And a shortage of supplies was not his only problem.
As if to remind him, here was Qualtrough asking if the Captain would allow the ‘Mohammetans’ up on deck, now the gunnery practice was finished. With some reluctance Nathan gave his permission, and braced himself for another confron tation with Prince Ahmed and his peripatetic court-in-exile.
Nathan had no idea what Imlay had told the Pashazade when he had persuaded him to leave his secure refuge in Algiers, but he had probably not mentioned that he would be kicking his heels aboard a sloop-of-war for the next few weeks off the coast of his erstwhile homeland.
Most of his followers had left on unexplained missions ashore, presumably to take soundings among the populace and prepare the way for his triumphant return. Nathan would have thought the Pasha-zade would have been keen to join them, but for all his obvious frustration he chose to remain aboard the Swallow with his diminishing entourage, in stubborn occupation of the Captain’s quarters, emerging only to take the air and gaze in a melancholy fashion towards the distant shore, or to listen with a doleful air of reproach whilst one of his advisers berated Nathan, or such of his officers as had the misfortune to be on duty, with his complaints. The Pasha-zade himself rarely spoke, at least not while he was on deck. This could be arrogance but it seemed more like shyness or lack of confidence to Nathan. The fellow might be a member of a warrior caste, but you would never have guessed from the look of him. Imlay called him Ahmed the Terrible – presumably in a spirit of irony.
There were only two of Ahmed’s advisers left, along with his dragoman, two servants, two bodyguards, and his personal physician, Omar al-Saayid, who was the only one of the bunch Nathan had any time for, not only because he spoke fluent French and had more charm than the rest put together, but because he had volunteered to be of assistance to the ship’s surgeon. It was more than welcome, since Mr Kite had been showing increasing signs of panic since leaving Gibraltar – though nothing like the panic he induced in his patients. Unfortunately Dr Saayid spoke no English, but then as this was a deficiency shared by the majority of the crew, it hardly seemed to matter. Certainly he seemed to have no problem diagnosing their complaints, and thus far no one had died of his remedies.
The complaint today was about the rats – apparently several had been seen on the Pasha-zade’s table. Nathan dealt with this with as much patience as he could contrive. He advised against leaving any food lying around. It always attracted rats, he said. Also midshipmen, which was worse. You could leave poison out, but the rats were usually too clever to eat it and the midshipmen thrived on it. In the end you just had to put up with them. They were among the inconveniences of living aboard a ship-of-war, but nothing like as inconvenient as being obliged to command the said ship whilst occupying a cabin the size of a cupboard, immediately adjoining the cabin of an extremely large Russian who snored like a grampus.
If the dragoman understood any of this, which was doubtful, he showed no signs of having done so. Nathan politely touched his hat and returned to the rail to resume his observations of the distant shore, only for his attention to be directed to a small boat approaching from the direction of that shore under a lateen sail. It did not appear to be one of the tartans which supplied them with freshly-caught fish most days of the week, and Nathan raised the glass to his eye in hope that it might be bringing Imlay and Cathcart back from their mission ashore.
It was not. But there were two figures in the stern wearing the dress of rich Levantine merchants or dignitaries, and there was something else about them that engaged his further attention, something vaguely familiar. One of them was a black man and his face was in shadow, but even though he was seated Nathan could see that he was a considerable size. He focused on the other man – and to his surprise and delight, found himself looking upon the unmistakable features of Spiridion Foresti, former British Consul to the Seven Isles, who had sailed with him on the Unicorn and helped him to take the Jean-Bart from the French.
And unless he was very much mistaken, the man sitting beside him was the former gunner’s mate of the Unicorn, George Banjo.
‘Well, gentlemen, welcome aboard – though I cannot promise as warm a welcome as on your last visit.’
Nathan greeted his guests on the quarterdeck, where they had fought a bloody hand-to-hand battle to gain control of the sloop when it was in French hands. Banjo had saved his life on that occasion – and not for the first time – but if anything, he looked more nervous now than when he had been laying about him with his machete – as well he might, given the charges that could be laid against him. He wore a turban and had grown a beard, but his massive frame could not be so easily disguised, and it was unlikely that many of his former shipmates would be fooled – certainly not Tully and Lamb, who had recognised him the moment he stepped aboard.
His companion looked more at ease, but then Nathan could hardly imagine a situation when he would not. Spiridion Foresti was, like Gilbert Imlay, a man of many parts. He had been a sailor and soldier and now, Nathan supposed, he must be rated a spy, though in many ways he defied category.
Nathan clapped him on the shoulder. ‘It is good to see you, Spiridion. I had almost given you up for lost.’
‘I am sorry, my friend. I have only just received your message or I would have been here sooner.’
‘They said at the Consulate that you had returned to Corfu.’
‘Corfu is in the hands of the French,’ Spiridion reminded him. ‘If I returned there I would be arrested and very like find myself shot as a spy. However, I may have given that impression. If I disclosed my plans to the people in the English Consulate, I am afraid it would be all over Tripoli within hours.’ He dropped his voice. ‘In fact, I have been to Egypt, and if we can speak more privately I will tell you what I discovered there.’
The stern cabin being barred to them by its present occupancy and the gunroom so stifling as to be almost unin habitable, Nathan proposed they adjourn to the maintop where they stood the best chance of conversing without being over heard. He told Qualtrough to send two of the ship’s boys up with a bottle of Portuguese arinto and three glasses.
‘And some olives, Qualtrough, if you please,’ he said. ‘I believe Mr Foresti is partial to olives. If you have not served them all to our other guests.’
‘The last I heard of you, you were confined in the Doge’s Prison in Venice,’ Spiridion observed, when they were comfortably settled in the maintop with the wine poured and the olives in a dish of brine, and a scrap of sail to shield them from the sun. ‘But you appear no worse for the experience.’
‘Oh, I have been in much more wholesome prisons since,’ Nathan assured him. ‘I will tell you about it sometime, but now we had better talk of more pressing matters. However, before you tell me about Egypt, may I ask if you have any news of Gilbert Gabriel. You remember him? He was my servant, who accompanied me to Venice.’
‘I remember him well,’ Spiridion replied. ‘I remember the way he fought when we took the Jean Bart. But I am afraid I have no news of any consequence. I know that when you were imprisoned in Venice he applied to the English Ambassador, Sir Richard Worsley, in th
e hope that he might use what influence he had to obtain your release. But after that …’ He spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘There was a rumour that he was taken up by the authorities and pressed into service aboard one of the galleys, but I was unable to trace him before the French arrived. I am sorry,’ he added as he noted Nathan’s reaction. ‘You were greatly attached to him?’
‘I had known him since I was a small child.’
‘Well, he stands at least as good a chance of surviving the war in a Venetian galley as he would in the British Navy.’
This was probably true. ‘At least you were able to be of service to Mr Banjo here,’ Nathan said. ‘And I thank you for that.’
It was Nathan who had advised the gunner to jump ship at Corfu, and apply to the Consul for assistance.
‘It is I who must thank you, for he has saved my life on more than one occasion since,’ Spiridion replied, ‘so I hope you are not going to deprive me of his services.’
‘I think Mr Banjo may have burned his boats with the Navy,’ Nathan acknowledged. In fact, if the gunner ever came aboard a proper King’s ship and was recognised as a deserter, they all knew what would happen to him. He sat at some little distance from the two men, in as much as this was possible in the confined area of the maintop, but he followed the conversation with a lively interest.
‘But now tell me how you did in Egypt,’ Nathan said to Spiridion. ‘Was it worth the trip?’
‘Very much so, though it would not please our masters in London. Have you ever been there?’
‘No. I was never so far east.’
‘So what do you know of the country and its rulers?’
‘Not a great deal,’ Nathan admitted. He did not think it worthwhile to mention that his knowledge came almost entirely from illustrations in the King James’s Bible that had lain open in his father’s study in Wilmington when he was a child. ‘I know that the population is largely Arabic and that it is part of the Ottoman Empire.’
‘Well, this is true,’ Spiridion conceded. ‘Their formal allegiance is to the Sultan in Constantinople. But in actual fact the Turks have about as much influence over Egyptian affairs as they do in Tripoli, which is none at all. The real rulers are the Mamelukes, who are neither Turk nor Arab. You are not familiar with the Mamelukes?’
Nathan shook his head, though the word did, in fact, stir some distant memory.
‘It is from the Turkish for “one who is owned”. They are a traditional warrior caste in Muslim society, like the Khuloghlis in Tripoli – Christian slaves, taken as young boys from the Caucasus, forcibly converted to Islam, and trained as soldiers – cavalry in the case of the Mamelukes, elite cavalry. They are among the finest horsemen in the world. They were originally sent to Egypt and Syria to fight the Crusaders. Saladin himself was one of their number, I believe, though he was never a slave. But they seized power for themselves and have been more or less running the country ever since. They live like satraps with a harem of Egyptian and African women, but they only marry women from the Caucasus – and they never have children by their own wives. If the women conceive, the baby is aborted. Instead, they have a policy of bringing in young boys from the Caucasus at the age of seven or eight and training them as their heirs, in their own image and likeness so to speak.’
‘But why not their own sons?’
Spiridion shrugged. ‘You would have to ask the Mamelukes that. It is the tradition. They believe it secures them against becoming too like the Arabs, or the Turks – both of whom hate them with an abiding passion, by the way. This is what the French are counting on. They have sent agents into the country to stir up the populace. To tell them the French are coming as allies of the Sultan to liberate them from their Mameluke oppressors.’
‘So the French are coming?’
‘You sound doubtful.’
‘Billy Pitt is. He thinks it’s all my eye and Betty Martin.’
Spiridion, for all his knowledge of the English and their language, was clearly not familiar with this expression. But Mr Banjo was – he must have heard it many times on the lower deck.
‘A nonsense,’ he explained. ‘A story put about by the French to mask their true intentions.’
‘Well, this is possible,’ Spiridion conceded, ‘but if Pitt is wrong and the French march on India … ?’
‘They will have to take Egypt first,’ Nathan pointed out.
‘I doubt that will be as great an inconvenience to them as taking the British Isles.’
‘You do not think the Mamelukes will fight?’
‘Oh they will fight but –’ he shrugged. ‘Mr Banjo here has made a study of the Mameluke method of fighting. Perhaps he would be good enough to explain it to you.’
Mr Banjo’s interest in military tactics was not a great surprise to Nathan. It was his inclination to debate the subject with his superiors on the Unicorn that had led to his downfall.
‘They ride their horses toward the enemy at full pelt,’ he confided, ‘discharging their pistols and carbines, of which they carry a great number. When each gun is fired they drop it to the ground for their servants to pick up, and when they reach the enemy they lay about them with their scimitars, cutting off heads by the score.’
‘And what is your opinion of this tactic, Mr Banjo?’ enquired Spiridion politely.
‘It works very well against the tribes of the desert,’ Banjo shrugged.
‘And against the French?’
‘With muskets and bayonets – and field artillery? And Bonaparte as their commander?’ He considered briefly. ‘The French will cut them to pieces.’
‘Precisely. And then they will march on India to join with the Sultan of Mysore, and together they will drive the British into the sea.’ Spiridion noted Nathan’s expression. ‘Or do you not think so?’
‘At present, I am more concerned with how we might persuade Billy Pitt of this danger,’ Nathan told him dryly.
‘We can only tell him what we know – and of the activities of French agents in Egypt and Tripoli.’
‘They are here in Tripoli?’
‘They have sent one of their best agents here. Xavier Naudé is his name. His previous posting was Venice, where he created a pro-French interest in the city and stirred up the mob against the Doge. He is doing the same thing here, except that he does not need the mob, for he has more powerful allies – Murad Reis for one – the man you know as Peter Lisle, who is the Admiral of the Pasha’s fleet. He has sold Naudé copies of his charts – Murad Reis is famous for his charts, he has some of the best ever made of the Levant. And only last night I heard that Naudé has hired the Meshuda to make a survey of the coastline between here and Rosetta on the Nile Delta.’
Nathan stared at him in silence for a moment while a dozen questions ran through his head. He asked only one. ‘When?’
‘As soon as possible. But Murad Reis is reluctant to leave Tripoli until negotiations with the Americans are concluded. He stands to make a great deal of money from them.’
‘Does the Pasha know anything of this?’
‘Unfortunately I believe he is a party to it. He thinks the French are the coming power in the region, and that if they were to invade Egypt, he will have them as his neighbours.’
Nathan looked towards the shoreline, curving away to the east until it was lost in the distant haze. It must be almost 1,000 miles to the Nile Delta. A proper survey could take months. But there must be specific points that the French had already identified from the charts. A port or a bay that was big enough and sufficiently sheltered to land an army of around 50,000 men with wagons, guns, limbers and horses.
‘I would give anything to see these charts Naudé has purchased,’ he reflected.
‘I have already named a price,’ Spiridion confessed. ‘But they are locked in a safe in the French Consulate. It might be easier to obtain the originals from the Meshuda.’
Nathan looked at him sharply. ‘How?’
‘Sooner or later she will put to sea. Do y
ou think you could take her?’
‘I would have a damn good try,’ Nathan told him, though it occurred to him that Imlay might have something to say about that. He would have a hell of a fight on his hands, too.
He gazed out again towards Tripoli. It was too far to see much detail with the naked eye, but with the glass he could make out the masts of the Meshuda in the inner harbour. He had thought at first she was a xebec, the traditional fighting ship of the corsairs, but she was a true schooner, with no square sails at all: an unusually large schooner of about 400 tons, built in Philadelphia and originally called the Betsy. The corsairs had taken her over a year ago and armed her with twenty-eight guns – only 6-pounders, as far as Nathan could gather, but they would be a match for his carronades at long range, and if he went in close to make the best use of his smashers there was a significant risk of being boarded, which would be no joke with the crew she carried – over 350 by Imlay’s account, including a number of Janissaries, all armed to the teeth and outnumbering the Swallow’s own crew by more than two-to-one.
He was about to look away when he noticed something else. There was a boat coming out from the harbour; about the size of the Swallow’s cutter with a single lateen sail. He raised the glass to his eye and focused on the figures in the stern.
‘It’s Imlay,’ he said.
They met in the stifling heat of the gunroom, the maintop being considered inappropriate to the seriousness of their discourse and Cathcart too portly to contemplate an ascent.
The negotiations were going nowhere, Imlay reported. The Pasha had modified his original terms, but he was not prepared to go lower than $100,000 for the ship and its cargo, and $100 head money for every man, woman and child aboard – a total of $250,000. Imlay was authorised to go up to $100,000 but not a cent more. There were other terms, besides, which he was not prepared to disclose, but which he described as ‘unacceptable’.
‘So what are we to do?’ demanded Nathan.
