by Seth Hunter
It was late afternoon before Spiridion returned with the somewhat confusing news that the women had been kidnapped.
‘Kidnapped?’ Imlay’s voice was a harsh echo. ‘We know they have been kidnapped, goddamn it. That is why I have just paid one hundred thousand dollars for their ransom.’
‘I mean, since they were brought to Tripoli. Two nights ago, in fact.’
Imlay stared at him in astonishment. ‘So where are they now?’
‘Well, you will not like it,’ Spiridion informed him, ‘but I have it on good authority that they are aboard the Meshuda.’
Imlay did not like it. In fact, he demonstrated his dislike by taking off his hat and hurling it upon the deck. Mr Lamb picked it up and thoughtfully dusted it with his sleeve before returning it to him.
‘By God, I might have known,’ Imlay swore. ‘We should never have let her slip away,’ he rebuked Nathan bitterly.
Nathan reminded Imlay that it was he himself who had insisted they should let her ‘slip away’. ‘You said she could go to the Devil for all you cared.’
‘But I did not know the women were aboard her,’ Imlay wailed. He turned on Spiridion. ‘How could they have got out of the castle without anyone knowing? Unless the Pasha is behind it and he has sent them away for safekeeping – is that it?’
‘I suppose that is possible.’ Spiridion gazed about the quarter deck where Mr Lamb, as officer of the watch, and several other English-speakers were pretending they had not the slightest interest in the conversation of their superiors. ‘Do you think it is possible to talk more privately?’ he requested.
They adjourned to the stern cabin, which the Pashazade’s unfortunate demise had now restored to them.
‘I am told that their escape was contrived by Xavier Naudé,’ Spiridion revealed when they were settled around the table, ‘with the undoubted assistance of Murad Reis, or if you prefer, Peter Lisle.’
‘I know who Murad Reis is, goddamn it,’ Imlay rebuked him, ‘but who in God’s name is Xavier Naudé?’
‘He is the leading French agent in Tripoli,’ Nathan supplied calmly. ‘And you will oblige me, Imlay, by controlling your temper. We are not your lackeys, even if you would like to think so.’
Imlay glared but then surprised Nathan by apologising with apparent sincerity. ‘But it is enough to make a saint cuss,’ he declared in a more reasonable tone. ‘Why in God’s name would the leading French agent in Tripoli wish to abduct Louisa Devereux?’
‘I do not think he would, had he any choice in the matter,’ Spiridion replied. ‘Naudé’s interest is in the other woman.’
‘I am confused,’ Imlay informed him. ‘Why would he be interested in either of them?’
‘Well, that is something of a mystery,’ Spiridion admitted. ‘It may be because she is a British agent, but I am told it may be more personal than that. An affair of the heart. She is a very beautiful woman and he is a Frenchman, after all.’
‘A British agent?’ Imlay wiped a hand over his streaming brow. ‘Who in God’s name is she?’
Spiridion glanced at Nathan. ‘Her name is Caterina Caresini,’ he revealed, ‘and she was until recently the Deputy Prioress of the Convent of San Paolo di Mare in Venice.’
‘She was what? I think I am going mad,’ confessed Imlay. He appealed to Nathan: ‘Do you understand any of this?’
‘I was once acquainted with a woman of that name,’ Nathan confirmed thoughtfully. ‘In Venice.’ In fact, their association had been brief but it had made a lasting impression. He frowned suspiciously at Spiridion. ‘However, I had no idea she was here in Tripoli.’
‘I had no intention of deceiving you,’ Spiridion assured him. ‘But there was no occasion for me to mention it. It was a great surprise to me when I saw her among the other hostages at the Pasha’s Divan. I suppose it was necessary for her to leave Venice in a hurry when the French landed – and unfortunately she picked the wrong ship.’
‘Well, I am sorry to be boorish,’ Imlay interrupted them, ‘but I have not the slightest concern for this woman, whoever she is – nun, spy or the Empress of Ethiopia. Xavier Naudé, whoever he is, is welcome to her. Louisa Devereux is all I care about. And how to get her back.’
‘We must get them both back,’ Spiridion agreed coolly. ‘For I have as much an obligation to Sister Caterina as you to Miss Devereux. Which means catching up with her in the Swallow,’ he said to Nathan. ‘Before they reach Egypt.’
‘Wait a moment.’ Imlay massaged his fevered brows in an attempt to focus his thoughts. ‘If Naudé’s interest is in this – nun – why have they also taken Louisa Devereux, and why is Murad Reis involved?’
Spiridion shrugged. ‘I am told the nun, as you call her, insisted upon it. Though it may be that Murad Reis has interests of his own.’
‘What interests? You are not saying this is another “affair of the heart”?’
‘It is not impossible. But I rather suspect it is more of a financial interest. He probably thinks he deserves more than a small share of the hundred thousand you paid the Pasha and thinks to demand a separate ransom for her.’
Imlay groaned and held his head in his hands. He seemed on the verge of tears.
‘But this is speculation,’ Spiridion said, with another glance to Nathan. ‘All I know for certain is that Monsieur Naudé has hired the Meshuda, ostensibly to undertake a survey of the coast between here and the Nile Delta.’
Imlay looked up at him in astonishment, his eyes wild and his voice almost a wail. ‘What? Why?’
‘In preparation for a French landing,’ Nathan explained.
‘His interest in the women may be something of a diversion,’ Spiridion added.
‘But what if this whole business is a diversion?’ Imlay objected. ‘A ruse to send us off on a wild-goose chase after the Meshuda. How can you be sure the women have not been concealed in the Red Castle?’
‘Because my chief informant helped to organise their escape.’
Now they both stared at him in bemusement.
‘You are saying that you were behind this?’ Imlay challenged him.
‘Of course not. I said my informant, not my servant. She is what you might call a routier – a freelance. She serves several different masters. One is Naudé, another is myself. She also takes money from the Pasha, or his Grand Kehya. And doubtless others of whom I have less knowledge.’
‘And yet you trust her?’ Imlay challenged him.
‘Oh, I would not say that. But in this instance, yes I do. She has nothing to gain by deceiving me. Her true loyalty is to God and her family – who are of the Jewish persuasion, by the by, with financial interests throughout the Levant and in Italy. I am not sure about God, but certainly her family would not wish to make an enemy of me.’
There was a knock and Qualtrough poked his vulture face around the door to report that the barge was returning with Mr Cathcart.
‘Perhaps he has different news,’ said Imlay hopefully.
But what little news Cathcart had gleaned only confirmed Spiridion’s version of events. He had been unable to speak with the Pasha, but after keeping him waiting for most of the day, the Grand Kehya had informed him that the two women had escaped from the seraglio two nights before.
‘He says it was assumed that we had arranged it,’ he reported.
Imlay let out an oath. ‘The old buzzard! I have a mind to give them a few parting shots before we leave.’
‘We are wasting time,’ Nathan pointed out. ‘The Meshuda already has a day’s start on us. If we are to stand any chance at all of catching her, we must set sail in the next hour, while we can still see the shoals.’
The two ships crept out of the bay with the benefit of the offshore breeze but under reefed topsails for fear of running upon the rocks, and the sun slipping down behind Tripoli. From Nathan’s vantage, the city resembled the backdrop for a stage setting of The Arabian Nights, the domes and cupolas, battlements and watch-towers like so many wooden cut-outs against the crimson s
ky and the first lights flickering in the windows of the houses and along the ramparts of the Red Castle.
Part Three
The Mouth of the Nile
Chapter Seventeen
The Long Chase
They parted with the Saratoga a little after daybreak. It had been decided she would head for Malta, some 200 miles to the north, to replenish her supplies and obtain medical attention for those needing it before resuming her long, interrupted journey to Philadelphia.
While the Swallow turned eastward and began her own long journey in search of the Meshuda.
Imlay was convinced they were on a fool’s errand. ‘We can never hope to find her,’ he insisted, staring gloomily at the charts. ‘She could be heading anywhere in the Eastern Med.’
But Spiridion was confident his information was correct, and that the schooner had been hired by Xavier Naudé to find a beachhead for the French invasion of Egypt.
‘That still leaves us a lot of beach between Tripoli and Alexandria,’ Nathan pointed out, for though he hated to agree with Imlay, he was inclined to share his doubts.
‘About a thousand miles,’ Spiridion acknowledged. ‘But why march a thousand miles through a desert when you can sail straight to Alexandria – barely a hundred miles from Cairo. A five- or six-day march along the Nile, say, with a fleet of boats to carry your supplies. That would be my choice, and I cannot believe I am a better General than Bonaparte.’
The map argued his case more eloquently than words, but Nathan was not entirely convinced.
‘I thought Naudé came to Tripoli to make a treaty with Yusuf Pasha?’ he said.
‘This was one of his reasons,’ Spiridion agreed thoughtfully. ‘What of it?’
‘So what if Yusuf has offered the use of his own ports – Tobruk perhaps, right here on the Egyptian border.’ Nathan indicated its position on the map. It was still a fair way from Cairo – about 400 miles, he reckoned, as the crow flies, but at least they could disembark in an orderly fashion at a friendly port. ‘Bonaparte might prefer that to wading ashore on an open beach,’ he observed, ‘with the Mamelukes waiting for him, sharpening their blades.’
‘Indeed,’ Spiridion nodded. ‘But if that were the case, Naudé would have no need to conduct a survey. Murad Reis would supply him with all the charts he requires. No, my friend, in my view the Meshuda will head straight for Alexandria and conduct a leisurely survey of the beaches between El Alamein and Rosetta.’ He described an arc with his finger, covering a distance of around 100 miles. ‘And that is where we will find her.’
He made it sound relatively easy. ‘Why leisurely?’ Nathan queried.
‘Because they have two of the most beautiful women in Venice at their disposal,’ Spiridion declared morosely. ‘Why would they wish to hurry?’
Nathan could think of several reasons, not least the temper of an impatient Bonaparte back in Paris, or Toulon, or wherever he was at the present moment in time.
‘How long will it take to reach Alexandria?’ Imlay asked him – as if Nathan were a coachman delivering the Royal Mail.
‘Depends on the wind,’ Nathan told him with shrug. But seeing Imlay’s expression, he relented a little. ‘The prevailing wind being westerly,’ he informed him, ‘if it remains light and from the present quarter, we might expect to sight Pompey’s Pillar in anything between eight to ten days.’
Imlay echoed these figures with dismay.
‘If it is any consolation, I do not suppose the Meshuda will be any quicker,’ Nathan assured him dryly.
‘Well then,’ Imlay sighed, ‘if we are all agreed, let us set a course for Alexandria. And with good fortune we may overhaul her on the way.’
It was never a good idea, in Nathan’s experience, to presume upon the wind. Within a few hours of their parting from the Saratoga it had dropped to a mocking whisper that left the sails flapping limply at the yards and the crew almost as lifeless in the heat of the afternoon sun. Below decks it was like an oven, and the only relief that could be obtained was under the canvas awnings Tully had rigged between the masts, with the fire engine playing water on them from time to time so that, as Nathan put it, ‘at least we may be wet whilst we fry.’
But Tully could do nothing about the wind. The first day, they barely moved. As the sun set, they could still see the sails of the Saratoga on the northern horizon. The next day they made barely ten miles between dawn and dusk. Overnight the wind picked up a little but by morning, perversely, as if playing with them, it had backed to the south-east and came on so strongly they were obliged to strike down the topgallants and struggle on under reefed topsails with the boats brought aboard, everything battened down, and the sea breaking over the decks.
Nathan’s only consolation was that as conditions worsened, the attitude of the crew improved perceptibly. Even his waisters showed a dogged resource he had not expected of them as they endured a constant battering of wind and rain, fighting their way along the decks with the water pouring off their sou’westers, clutching at the lifelines as the sea threatened to carry them off wholesale, and the wind howling through the rigging like a demented wolfpack on the rampage. Time and time again he struggled to bring the ship’s head round to the east, only to be beaten back by the sea. Twice they were almost broached. As if scenting victory, the wind increased in violence, obliging them to run before it on bare poles or with the merest scrap of a staysail to keep their stern to the wind. For three days it harried them without mercy, driving them further and further to the north-west.
‘At this rate,’ Nathan complained to Tully, ‘we will soon be back in Gibraltar.’
‘If we are so lucky,’ Tully muttered, with an eye to the scudding clouds.
The sky remained overcast night and day. Being denied the facility of a horizon or a single celestial body from which to take a reading, they could only judge their position by dead reckoning, or even more primitive guesswork. Tully and the sailing master, Cribb, feared they might run upon the south-western coast of Crete or one of its outlying islands. Nathan put them further to the west, just off the tip of the Morea. And Spiridion, who had a more supernatural view of the world and its winds, believed that, with a malign sense of irony, it might drive them onto the shores of Zante, his birthplace in the Ionian Sea.
In fact, when the sky cleared sufficiently to take a reading, all four of them agreed within a small margin of error that they were at 35° 27´ North, 22° 24´ East – which put them about 100 miles to the west of Crete and about the same distance south of Cape Tainaron on the Morea.
‘So we were both right,’ Nathan remarked to Tully, not with out a degree of complacency for he was aware of his deficiencies in the matter of navigation, especially when it was based on pure instinct, unsupported by his painstaking mathematics.
‘It could have been worse,’ Tully commented.
In truth, it was a lot better than Nathan had expected, for although they had been driven much further north than he would have wished, they were only 300 or so miles from Alexandria, and if the wind would only maintain its present speed and direction, they might hope to reach the port within three to four days. But being the wind, of course, this was no more likely than a mule might grow wings and fly. It did, in fact, veer westward overnight, but dropped away altogether by daybreak, leaving them stranded off the southern coast of Crete. And off Crete they remained for the best part of a week; the wind, when it could be bothered to blow at all, herding them slowly and sullenly along the length of the island, making scarcely thirty miles from noon to noon.
It was an island Spiridion knew well, though he called it by its Venetian name of Candia. Once the cradle of Minoan civilisation, it had been part of the Venetian maritime empire for 400 years until it fell to the Turks, since when many of its inhabitants, who were Greek in origin, had converted to Islam. But they were friendly enough, according to Spiridion who did a great deal of trade with them, and he was able to replenish their dwindling supplies in Selino with the tacit consent of his
friend the Turkish Governor, who had been oiled by a large bribe. They were even able to replenish their supplies of wine, acquiring a local variety mixed with pine needles which was something of an acquired taste but which the crew tolerated with admirable fortitude. It proved an excellent accompaniment to the fish, and even turtles, which were plentiful in these waters. Indeed, with food, wine, sunshine and calm seas, it might have been an idyllic cruise – and for most of the crew it probably was – but Imlay was in a fever of impatience to catch the Meshuda and Nathan even more anxious to report back on what he had learned of the French intentions. It was only Spiridion’s insistence that they needed the Meshuda’s charts that kept him from abandoning the chase there and then, and turning back for Gibraltar, though it would have gone hard between him and Imlay.
Finally, after five days of crawling along ‘that damnable shore’ as Nathan described it, the wind picked up, and for the first time in almost two weeks, the Swallow began to spread her wings and fly, with studding sails spread aloft and alow, a bow wave at her head and a long creamy wake spreading back to the rapidly dwindling island at her stern.
But they had lost a great deal of time, and after studying the map, Spiridion prevailed upon Nathan to set his course south-east by east, heading directly for the little port of Rosetta, some forty miles east of Alexandria on the Nile Delta.
‘For in my view that is the most likely place for the French to land,’ he argued, ‘and if I am wrong and the Meshuda is not there, then we can head westward towards El Alamein and hope to run into her on the way.’
And so, on the morning of 18 June, twenty-one days after leaving Tripoli, they entered a wide bay Spiridion pronounced as Abukir – the Bay of the Castle.
They approached from the north-west with the wind on their starboard quarter, but blowing so mild and desultorily, their stately progress seemed hardly to break the surface of the water. The sky was a cloudless blue and the sun rising behind them bathed the long sandy shore in an indolent golden haze.
