by Seth Hunter
‘There is only one thing to be done,’ replied Imlay. ‘We must unleash the dog of War.’
Nathan inclined his head in polite enquiry.
‘The Pasha-zade,’ Imlay announced. ‘Ahmed the Terrible.’
Chapter Fifteen
The Sons of Slaves
The Swallow lay close inshore, just to the east of Tripoli, as the sun dropped to the west. Some little distance off her starboard bow, just beyond the white strip of beach, was the area known as the menshia, the Garden of Tripoli – an oasis of palm and pomegranate and olive trees, where sandy lanes sloped gently down to the sea between hedges of Indian fig and jasmine. It was as peaceful a scene as Nathan could imagine. Earlier he had watched languid oxen circling the open wells to draw water for the plots of green peppers and alfalfa, while Arab farmers on donkeys waved cheerfully towards the foreign sloop riding in the bay. But now there was little movement ashore as darkness fell on the menshia.
In the twilight, Nathan could see the lights of small villages and mosques among the trees, and the luxurious villas and stables of the Khuloghlis, the proud sons of slaves who were quartered here in this, the birthplace of Yusuf Pasha and his murdered brother Hassan, and their own Ahmed the Terrible.
Who was now saying his prayers.
Nathan could hear the incantations drifting back from the quarterdeck where the Pasha-zade and his clan had spread their prayer mats. He fancied they had a more fervent air than usual, for tonight Prince Ahmed was to take the decisive step towards reclaiming his lost inheritance. If the reports were true, over 1,000 of his loyal supporters were waiting among those palms and villas for him to lead them into battle. Over 1,000 superb horsemen armed to the teeth, eager to avenge the murder of their beloved Bey at the hands of his own brother. To ride at dawn against the Monster of the Red Castle.
The Swallow would play her part, bombarding the fortress by sea as the Khuloghlis attacked by land – and there were promises that the disaffected Moors of Tripoli would rise up and join them as soon as battle was joined.
All in all, it promised to be a right royal mill and Nathan had to admit that after so many weeks of enforced idleness, he was rather looking forward to it. His only complaint, as he put it to Imlay, was that their boy – Ahmed the Terrible – might have shown a bit more enthusiasm about stepping up to the mark. A rousing speech might have been too much to expect, but a touch of bravado would not have gone amiss, a little light dancing on the feet, throwing a few punches, just to let the lads know what they were putting their money on. But he looked like a man who was about to be hanged.
Still, from what Nathan could gather, his father Ali Pasha had been nothing to shout about either, and he had ruled for more than forty years with the support of the Khuloghlis. Everything, apparently, depended on them. These elite horse men were the makers and breakers of dynasties, which was why they were quartered a mile outside the Menshia Gate and forbidden to enter the city in any number or with any kind of weapon. If they gave their support to Ahmed, declared Imlay, it was all up with Yusuf Pasha.
‘If?’ Nathan had queried sharply at the council of war called by Imlay in the gunroom of the Swallow.
‘I mean “when”,’ Imlay corrected himself. The word in the street and in the coffee houses was that Yusuf Pasha’s time was up, he declared with his usual air of confidence – which had never convinced Nathan before and was some way from convincing him now. But Cathcart was nodding in agreement. Ahmed’s own advisers – the agents who had been sent ashore – had reported that the Khuloghlis were ready to receive him with open arms, he said. They had loved his brother, the murdered Bey, and their hatred for Yusuf Pasha was at least as intense. Two years ago they had given him the benefit of the doubt, but he had proved to be a ruthless and unpredictable tyrant. Now they were ready for a change.
Spiridion was less optimistic.
‘From what I have heard, the Khuloghlis tend to favour ruthless and unpredictable tyrants,’ he informed Nathan later when they discussed the matter in private. ‘They had rather a strong man than a weak one, even if they feel the weight of his iron fist.’
The present Bey had something which the locals called bashasha, Spiridion said, a word that could not easily be trans lated into English, but which contained elements of charisma and charm combined with a fierce caprice. It was, one could say, a kind of volatile changeability akin to madness; but in Tripoli and in other of the Barbary Coast states it was seen as a mark of the born leader.
‘I know what you mean,’ Nathan reflected. ‘King George has it in spades. One minute he’s all smiles, planting turnips and opening Parliament, the next he’s talking to a tree thinking ’tis the King of Prussia. Gives Billy Pitt the shakes but he would rather Farmer George than Prinny any day of the week. Mad as a hatter, of course, but at least he don’t rouge his cheeks to look like a girl.’
Spiridion said he didn’t know about that but Yusuf Pasha had bashasha and his brother Ahmed didn’t, and if he had to put money on it, he’d lay it on the Monster.
Whatever happened, it seemed certain that daybreak would bring some kind of a conclusion to the affair, and it promised to be a lively one. The Swallow was not yet cleared for action but they had cartridges and 24-pound round shot lined up in the racks next to every gun, with a slow-match in reserve for if the flints failed. Buckets of water had been liberally placed about the decks as a precaution against fire, for it was expected that the fort would use heated shot. Cutlasses had been honed to a razor-edged sharpness, and muskets and pistols stood ready-loaded in case the Pasha sent his gunboats against them – or, even more interestingly, if it became necessary to take a party ashore to rescue the hostages.
All they needed now was for the Pasha-zade to finish praying and put his gloves on.
The sun finally set. Darkness swiftly settled upon land and sea. Ahmed and his followers retired below, hopefully to get ready for the fight. The offshore breeze brought the delicate scene of jasmine from the gardens of the menshia. Four bells rang out from the belfry, marking the midpoint of the first watch. The Pasha-zade came back on deck. He had changed out of his flowing robes into a coat of chainmail with a breastplate and a steel helmet and a long curved sword buckled at his waist. For the first time he looked more like the member of a warrior caste, a true Khuloghli. Nathan wondered if a cheer might be appropriate.
Instead he took off his hat and wished the Pasha-zade the best of luck and solemnly shook hands with the doctor, who was going with them.
‘We will miss you,’ he told him sincerely.
Mr Lamb had brought up the boats from the stern and Nathan and Spiridion watched in silence from the quarterdeck as the Pasha-zade was assisted into Nathan’s barge. There was something of an air of gloom about the occasion. Oh, for heaven’s sake! Nathan thought. This was no time to be coy. ‘Three cheers for the Pasha-zade,’ he cried. ‘And the doctor,’ he added quickly, in the hope of encouraging a better response from his lachrymose crew. ‘Hip hip, huzzah!’
And whether it was for the doctor or the Prince, or because they were happy to see them go, the crew sent the boats off in rousing style.
A full moon provided a shimmering pathway to the beach and Nathan watched them all the way. He could even see the reception committee waiting at the water’s edge. A smaller party than he might have hoped for, had he been a prince returning from exile, but doubtless the Pasha-zade’s supporters were keeping their strength concealed until dawn.
He watched as the sailors jumped into the gentle surf and ran the boats up onto the beach so the Pasha-zade would not get his feet wet. There was a lot of bowing and scraping from the reception committee and then the liberators headed up the beach towards the gently waving line of palms. They were about halfway there when the sound of a bugle or trumpet alerted Nathan to the presence of a much larger force that had emerged from the trees. There must have been at least 100 of them, all mounted, though it was difficult to be certain against the dark backdrop. Nathan assumed, na
turally enough, that they were supporters of the Pasha-zade – a troop of Khuloghli horsemen come to welcome their returning hero.
The returning hero showed no such assurance. To Nathan’s consternation, he and his followers began to run back towards the sea, but the boats had left on their return journey and were already about 100 yards from the shore. Even from where he stood, Nathan could hear the agitated cries of the abandoned landing party.
Then there was another blast from the trumpet and the cavalry charged.
Nathan watched in helpless astonishment as they enveloped the Pasha-zade and his men in a tide of plunging and wheeling horses. He saw the flash of swords raised to the moonlight and thought he could hear screams. He turned to see Imlay standing beside him. His face, by the light of the binnacle, appeared more thoughtful than troubled.
‘What the hell is going on?’ Nathan demanded.
But Imlay seemed less interested in what was happening on the beach than in something over on the far side of the bay towards the port. Nathan followed the direction of his gaze and saw the light at the end of the mole winking on and off, as if someone was passing a cloth back and forth across a lantern.
‘Is that a signal?’ he asked – and when Imlay made no reply: ‘To us?’
‘There!’ said Imlay, pointing, and Nathan saw the white sails outlined against the battlements of the city wall as a large vessel slipped out of the harbour and headed towards them across the bay. ‘The Saratoga.’ His voice was quietly exultant.
‘The Saratoga?’ Nathan looked from Imlay’s face to the distant ship and back. It began to make some kind of sense. ‘You arranged it!’ His voice was accusatory.
‘I agreed to it.’ Imlay raised his arm in what was almost a salute towards the emerging vessel. ‘And see what we got. The ship, the cargo, the hostages. The lot.’
‘For what? Thirty pieces of silver?’
Imlay was unperturbed. ‘Oh, the Pasha drives a harder bargain than that,’ he said. ‘But he took a hundred thousand down and the promise of a subsidy sometime in the future.’
‘And those poor bastards on the beach?’
They both looked back towards the shore. It was all over bar the shouting. The cavalry wheeling at the water’s edge, shouting their battle cries, their swords gleaming in the moon light as they waved them triumphantly towards the ship’s boats – and perhaps the ship herself, further out into the bay. The boats were about a cable’s length from the beach now, the men resting on their oars as Mr Lamb presumably tried to work out what to do next.
Nathan flung out an arm towards them. ‘If those men come to any harm …’ he began.
‘They will come to no harm,’ Imlay assured him carelessly. ‘Provided they do not attempt to intervene.’
‘It is a bit late for that.’
It was not possible to see details of the carnage the cavalry had wrought on the beach, but it was reasonable to assume they had taken no prisoners. Nathan thought one of the horsemen was waving a head.
‘I am tempted to give them a broadside,’ Nathan muttered, for whatever he had thought of the Pasha-zade, he was averse to treachery and greatly saddened and angered by the death of the doctor. ‘Just to wipe the smiles off their faces.’
‘You will do no such thing,’ Imlay instructed him. ‘This is no business of ours.’
‘No business of ours?’ Nathan rounded on him angrily. ‘Good God, man, you brought them here. You sent them to their deaths.’
‘How was I to know what Yusuf Pasha intended?’ Imlay retorted indignantly. ‘He could have had them taken prisoner.’ He gazed towards the shore. ‘He may in fact have done so.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Nathan’s tone was bitter. ‘That would fit with what we know of the man’s nature.’
‘Well, I cannot answer for Yusuf Pasha,’ said Imlay with what might have been a sigh of regret. ‘He has his own way of going about things.’
Nathan turned away, sickened as much by Imlay as what he had seen on the beach. He might have known, of course. It was not the first time he had witnessed Imlay’s capacity for double-dealing. He looked back towards the Saratoga and then noticed something strange. She was clear of the harbour entrance now and heading in almost a straight line towards them, but a trick of the moonlight seemed to have given her a long shadow, stretching back towards the port. And then the shadow detached itself and he saw that it was another ship.
‘Dear God!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s the Meshuda!’
He looked to Imlay to see if it was part of the plan. From the expression on his face it was not. ‘What are they up to?’ He frowned.
Nathan’s head was instantly full of calculations. The approaching ships were still well over a mile away, nearer two. If he cut the Swallow’s cable now, the offshore breeze would very likely take her out to sea long before the Meshuda could bring her guns to bear. There was no time to pick up the ship’s boats, but he could return for them later. More than anything else, they needed sea room – room to manoeuvre, to avoid being trapped and boarded in the shallow, treacherous waters of the bay. Then he remembered the reefs – the Kaluisa Reefs, an unmarked bank of shale and rock somewhere between the Swallow and the open sea. But he did not know their exact location – and in the darkness there was a very great risk he would not know until his keel grated upon the first rock.
Before he could think of a solution to the problem, the distance between the Saratoga and her shadow lengthened, and he saw that the schooner was bearing away to the north, heading for one of the gaps between the long line of islands that extended from the curved beak of the port.
‘Where is she going?’ he wondered aloud as he watched the triangular sails of the Meshuda disappear behind the islands.
‘She can go to the Devil for all I care,’ said Imlay. ‘That signal – it was from one of Cathcart’s men, to let us know the hostages were aboard the Saratoga.’ His features relaxed into a grin. He even clapped Nathan on the shoulder. ‘Let her go. We have got everything we wanted. It is over.’
His jubilation lasted a little over an hour until the Saratoga came alongside and he learned that he had been short-changed. Two of the hostages were missing, and one of them was Louisa Devereux, the daughter of the American Consul, the man who had put up the money for their entire expedition.
Chapter Sixteen
Kidnapped
The fury of a woman scorned was nothing, in Nathan’s admittedly limited experience of the condition, to the fury of the double-crosser double-crossed, and a few hours’ sleep did nothing to improve Imlay’s temper. At times his wrath reached biblical proportions as he vowed to be revenged on the treacherous Pasha, his wives and his children, his oxen and his asses, even down to the seventh generation. He was for sending off an immediate ultimatum, threatening all manner of reprisals unless the missing hostages were returned forthwith.
‘ “I will do such things”,’ murmured Nathan to Tully, ‘ “what they are, yet I know not: but they shall be the terrors of the earth”.’
Imlay might not have recognised the quote but he had a clearer idea than King Lear of what terrors to unleash. They should commence with a close blockade to stop even fishing boats from putting to sea, followed by a bombardment of the port, and if that did not bring the desired result they should send in boats under cover of darkness to fire the ships in the harbour.
Nathan turned away, rolling his eyes at Tully, and even Cathcart counselled a more moderate approach.
‘Before we go off on half-cock, I reckon we need to send to the Pasha and tell him that two of the hostages are missing,’ he argued. ‘Maybe he does not know about it. He has played straight with us on every other issue.’
A head-count had established that all the other prisoners were present and correct. The crew had been put to work as labourers, repairing the harbour defences, and there were some minor injuries and complaints, but most of the hostages were in reasonable shape. So, too, was the Saratoga after her long lay-to in Tripoli Harbour, and the cargo appe
ared to be intact, inasmuch as Captain Fry had been able to tell without a thorough inspection. Some of the women hostages echoed Imlay’s desire for revenge, but this was largely on account of being treated as skivvies, the Captain reported. From what he could gather, they had not been violated or otherwise mistreated during their stay in the seraglio. And the two missing women had been accommodated with them until the previous night when they had apparently been moved to other quarters, no one knew where.
‘Maybe they got overlooked in the confusion,’ Cathcart proposed. ‘After all, they are but two out of a hundred or more.’
‘Oh, well, that is some consolation, I suppose,’ Imlay remarked with icy sarcasm. ‘But perhaps you have overlooked that one of them happens to be Louisa Devereux, the daughter of the man who is not only paying our wages but has also raised most of the money for the ransom. And am I now to go back to him and say, “I am very sorry, sir, but your daughter has been overlooked in the confusion”? Pah!’
There was a short but uncomfortable silence. Nathan broke it by raising the practical difficulty of bombarding Tripoli with one small sloop, especially as it would be impossible to approach closer than a mile and a half without being bombarded in turn by the guns of the fort.
This only drew Imlay’s fire upon himself.
‘What is the use of an Englishman who will not fight?’ he complained to Cathcart and the world in general. ‘It is like keeping a bulldog that runs shy of the bull.’
‘Let us first discover the true situation,’ Spiridion interposed hastily, observing the sudden clenching of Nathan’s jaw, ‘before we start a war between the United States and Tripoli – not to speak of ourselves.’
He proposed that he and Cathcart should go ashore – Cathcart to make a formal representation to the Pasha while he made more discreet enquiries of his informants in the port.
Imlay was far from content, but for want of a better suggestion he reluctantly agreed.
