by Tim Severin
‘What makes you think that they will attempt their escape this evening?’ Diaz had asked.
‘Because there is no moon, and because tomorrow is the feast day of one of the local marabouts or holy men so the Muslim guards will be preparing their celebrations.’
‘What happens if a whole gang of prisoners swarms down the ropes? There are not enough of us to deal with all of them.’ It was Diaz’s cavalry friend Roberto who spoke. He was checking over the pair of pistols that Hector had provided, weapons Hector had borrowed from the Arsenal without consulting Sean Allen.
‘There should be only three men, perhaps four,’ Hector had reassured the Spaniard. ‘In the letter they have received, they have been told that the guide refuses to take more than three men at a time because a large group would be too noticeable as it made its way across country.’
‘Let’s hope the Frenchmen heed that advice,’ the Spaniard had grunted. ‘I don’t fancy facing a whole lot of them with just a pistol in my hand and no back-up.’
‘Try not to harm any of them,’ Hector had reminded him. ‘We want to take them alive.’
As the hours of darkness had dragged past, Hector was becoming aware of a flaw in his plan. He had failed to take into account the incessant howling and barking of the city’s population of dogs. As one pack of dogs fell silent, another group started up, filling the night with their clamour of useless noise and evoking a counter chorus which slowly faded away, only for some lone animal to howl plaintively and start the whole process over again. The racket made it impossible to hear the sounds of anyone who might be scrambling down the wall across the ditch from him, and the face of the wall was so obscured in the gloom that his eyes played tricks on him. Several times he had imagined a shadowy movement, only to be disappointed when, after a long interval, all remained dark and still.
Beside him Dan seemed impervious to the long wait. The Miskito was squatting on his heels, not moving. Hector, by contrast, was obliged to shift his legs from one position to another whenever he felt the first warning twinge of cramp. And as the wait grew longer, Hector grew more and more fretful. He had expected something to have happened by now. He wondered if Piecourt and the others had become suspicious of the note they had received, or if they had decided it would be better to wait for the Franciscans to arrange their ransom. He looked up at the stars, trying to calculate how long he and his companions had been lying in ambush. It was a clear night with only a few shreds of high thin clouds, and he could easily identify the constellations he had studied on the star globe in Turgut Reis’s library. It seemed so long ago that he and Dan had been held in the Algiers bagnio and discussed the possibility of their own escape. Now he was trying to prevent the escape of others. Everything seemed to have assumed a different shape. Back in Algiers he had told himself that he must survive the bagnio so that he would be free to track down his sister Elizabeth. Yet he had always known such an ambition was a fantasy. Now, however, he found that he was allowing himself to believe genuinely that he might locate her. He struggled to justify the reason for this new hope. Partly it was because he knew from Sean Allen that Hakim Reis’s ship might put into port one day, and he would have the chance to interview her captain. Yet there was something else which was making him more optimistic: he sensed that at last he was gaining control of his own fate, albeit slowly, and that he was no longer at the mercy of others.
A light touch on his hand interrupted his thoughts. It was Dan. The Miskito had not moved for so long that Hector had almost forgotten his presence. Now Dan was pointing upward. Hector looked towards the top of the rampart. For a second he glimpsed a shape, the outline of a man’s head, dark against the starry sky. The town dogs had renewed their howling, so he could hear nothing except their uproar. He kept absolutely still, gazing up towards the parapet. Time passed, and he wondered if he had been mistaken. Then Dan tapped him again on the hand twice, then once more. A moment later Hector could make out two heads against the sky and, almost immediately the head and shoulders of a third man who was leaning out, looking downwards cautiously. Hector felt for the loaded pistol that he had placed beside him, slid his fingers around the butt of the weapon, and waited.
There was a faint sound, so close now that he heard it over the distant crying of the dogs, a gentle slap. Hector guessed that it must be the sound of a rope’s end knocking against the wall as it dropped from above. He strained his eyes, trying to see the rope, but the outer face of the wall was in shadow from the starlight and he could see nothing. Looking upward he again detected movement, and this time he was certain. There was the dark outline of someone clambering out over the edge of the wall. The man, whoever it was, was starting his descent. Hector calculated that he would reach the ground about ten yards to the right of where he and Dan lay in wait. Still he did not move.
The figure passed into shadow and disappeared. Hector found that he was gripping the butt of the pistol so tightly that his fingers were numb. Gently he relaxed his grip. He no longer smelled the stench of the ditch. All his senses were concentrated on trying to gauge just how far down the rope the man had come, and to identify the spot where he would touch the ground. No more than half a minute later he heard a noise which he supposed was the sound of someone setting his feet carefully on the edge of the ditch. The base of the wall was so deep in shadow that Hector imagined, rather than saw, the dark shape of a man now standing and waiting there.
A scrabbling sound, and Hector realised that he had missed the start of the descent of a second man. He was already halfway down the rope and descending more swiftly than the first. The second man reached the ground even as Hector was coming to realise that he might have miscalculated badly, and had placed Diaz and his Spanish friend too far away to have noticed what was happening. He feared that they were too distant to help once the trap was sprung. Momentarily Hector dithered, his mind whirling. He did not know if he should act as soon as the next man reached the ground – he was now halfway down the wall – or wait to see if there were other escapees, more than the original three. He feared that if he delayed too long, those who were already on the ground would cross the ditch and escape into the darkness. And if they included the Chevalier, he might never be recaptured.
Hector came to a decision. He rose to his feet and called out, ‘Stand where you are or you will be shot.’ Hastily he climbed up the slope of the ditch, and ran to the point where he faced directly across to the three men. Dan was at his heels. The three fugitives remained in the deep black shadow at the foot of the wall and it was impossible to make them out distinctly. He hoped that there was enough starlight for them to see that he and Dan both held pistols.
There was silence from across the ditch.
‘Now come across towards me, one by one,’ Hector ordered.
The first shadow moved, stepped out into the starlight. Immediately Hector knew it was Yakup, the rowing master. The man’s squat shape was unmistakable as he made his way down into the ditch, slipping slightly, then squelched his way across and clambered up until he stood in front of the young Irishman. Yakup exuded such a sense of raw physical power that a prickle of fear ran up Hector’s spine, and he retreated a pace. ‘Come no closer! Step over there and lie face down on the ground,’ he ordered, motioning with his pistol. He heard movement over to his right, thankfully Diaz and the Spanish cavalryman were coming to his aid.
‘And the next,’ Hector called out. ‘Move slowly. No tricks.’
A second dark figure detached itself from the shadows and began to make its way across the ditch. When the man climbed up level with him, Hector saw what he had expected: it was the tall stranger, the man with the speckled cheek, whom he had twice seen in Piecourt’s company. ‘Stand still, just where you are,’ he commanded again. Then, speaking over his shoulder to Diaz who had joined them, he added, ‘Keep your eye on this one and don’t hesitate to shoot.’
He was certain that the third man in the shadow was Piecourt himself. There was a note of triumph in hi
s voice as he called out, ‘Now, comite, it’s your turn,’ and he watched as the third of the escapees made his way across the ditch and stood obediently in front of his captors. Hector felt the tension ebbing. His ambush had succeeded just as he had planned.
Piecourt was peering into his face and speaking. ‘So my dogs have betrayed me,’ he said. He must have recognised Dan and Bourdon as well, for he murmured, ‘Bench three. I always suspected that you were trouble. What will you do with us now?’
‘Hand you over to the guards,’ said Hector.
‘And then?’
‘Tomorrow someone will decide your punishment for attempting to escape.’ The words were hardly out of his mouth when he was roughly brushed aside. Someone had run up behind him and shoved him out of the way. His foot slipped on the edge of the ditch and for a moment he was off balance, sliding sideways. He half-turned and saw Karp. The expression on Karp’s face in the half-light was frightening. His mouth was a dark hole from which emerged a yowling scream. For a ghastly moment Hector was reminded of a stray dog howling at the moon, though the sound that Karp made was more piteous. The Bulgar was moving with shocking speed. His hands reached out. A moment later he had seized the tall stranger by the throat. The force of the lunge knocked the man off his feet and he fell backward, Karp on top of him. In appalled astonishment Hector, Dan and the others stood gaping as the two men writhed on the ground while Karp tried to throttle his victim. Piecourt was the first to recover his senses. He lashed out at Hector, who was still off balance so that Hector fell back on one knee. Whirling round, Piecourt swung an arm at Dan standing guard with his pistol, and forced the Miskito to duck. Then Piecourt took to his heels, running directly away from the wall and heading towards the distant village. Dan straightened up, coolly raised his pistol and called out. ‘Stop or I shoot!’ When Piecourt failed to respond, Dan pulled the trigger. There was a bright flash, a spurt of red and yellow sparks, followed by the flat explosion of the shot. Thirty yards away the fleeing shadow tumbled forward.
Neither the pistol shot nor Bourdon’s whoop of delight had any effect on Karp. He had succeeded in pinning his victim on his back, and was kneeling on his victim’s chest with his hands still around the stranger’s throat. His frenzied yelling had given way to low, fierce growls as he tried to kill his opponent with his bare hands. ‘Karp! Karp! Leave him alone! Let him be!’ Hector bellowed in Karp’s ear. But the Bulgar was oblivious to Hector’s shouts. He bore down with his full weight and was shaking his victim’s head from side to side. Hector seized Karp by the shoulder and tried to restrain him. ‘No, Karp! No!’ he yelled. But it was useless. Karp was in a red mist of rage. In desperation Hector threw an arm round Karp and tried to drag him back, using all his strength. But Karp was berserk. ‘Help me, Dan. Help me get Karp under control,’ Hector gasped, and with Dan’s assistance he wrestled the Bulgar away from his opponent who now lay choking and groaning on the ground.
‘Control yourself Karp,’ Hector begged. The Bulgar was sobbing in distress. He was sucking in great gasps of air through his mangled mouth. Tears of rage were streaming down his cheeks, and he was still trembling. ‘Everything’s under control, Karp,’ Hector reassured him. ‘You will have your revenge.’ Karp gave a gurgling choking sound, and turned his face away. To Hector’s utter amazement, the Bulgar dropped to his knees and began to pray. He was weeping uncontrollably.
Hector helped the stranger up. The man was still in a state of shock, appalled by the naked ferocity of the assault. He was unsteady on his feet, coughing and wheezing as he massaged his bruised throat. ‘Remember what you did to Karp, Chevalier. You could not have expected less,’ Hector said. The stranger did not answer at once, but waited until he had regained his self-control. Then he raised his head and, looking straight at Hector, snapped, ‘I should have strung up the villain when I had the chance. But such a death was too gentle for him.’
Dimly Hector became aware of Diaz’s voice. The Spaniard was cursing steadily and fluently. ‘He got clean away, the bastard,’ Diaz was lamenting. He was rubbing his elbow. The rowing master was nowhere to be seen. ‘We thought the pair of us had him under control, but the man has the strength of a bull. He took advantage of the commotion and jumped up off the ground and knocked both pistols out of my hands. When I tried to grab him, he twisted out of my grip as if I was a child. Then he dealt Roberto such a clout on the head that he was dizzy for minutes. By the time I recovered my guns, the brute had bolted. It was too late to take a shot at him and, besides, you had your hands full over here with Karp and his friend. I thought it better to come and help you secure the one bird that we had in the hand. There was no need to worry about that fellow Dan picked off. From the way he fell, I’d say he won’t get up again.’
‘Let’s get away from here,’ said Hector, suddenly feeling very weary. ‘We’ve got the prisoner we were looking for, and the guard will arrive any minute. They must have heard Dan’s shot and all the commotion. We can leave them to find Piecourt whether he’s dead or only wounded. He never lifted a hand to help us, so now we’ll repay him the compliment. Tomorrow I’ll find out just what our captive is worth.’
‘TEN THOUSAND louis d’or, that’s the ransom that I will be demanding for the Chevalier. I congratulate you,’ said Maimaran. The Jew had sent word for Hector to meet him in the imperial treasury, and Hector was astounded by the contrast with the Jew’s humble home. Maimaran was waiting for him in a reception chamber whose barbaric opulence was hidden deep in the palace compound. Sunlight poured in through the fine fretwork of arched windows and threw patterns across a tessellated floor of white, blue and red. The walls were hung with arrays of sabres, shields and muskets inlaid with gold and mother of pearl. Several iron chests, bolted and padlocked, stood against one wall. ‘His true identity is Adrien Chabrillan, Knight Commander of the Order of St Stephen of Tuscany. He also holds various lesser titles of nobility and rank including the honorary rank of captain in the Galley Corps of France. As you rightly surmised, he is also known as the Lion of La Religion. The Emperor is away for a few days so I have not yet informed him of his captive’s identity, but I know that he will be very pleased. It will enhance his reputation as a champion of Islam as well as make a very significant contribution to his treasury.’ Maimaran nodded towards the iron-bound chests. ‘The Emperor always needs money. His expenses are voracious, and his revenues unpredictable. The ransom of Chevalier Chabrillan will ensure a steady stream of income for quite some time.’
‘I had no idea that the Chevalier could be worth so much.’
Maimaran gave a tight smile. ‘His Majesty leaves it to me to act as the unofficial comptroller of his finances, and to maintain a balance between income and expenditure. The sum of ten thousand louis d’or is so enormous that it will take several years to raise. Doubtless Chevalier Chabrillan has friends and family who will advance what they can, and their contributions can be added to the sale of the more valuable possessions that he either inherited or accumulated over years of cruising against the Muslims. But that preliminary effort will raise no more than a down payment and will have to be followed by annual payments – perhaps for as much as another ten years. His supporters and family might even have to borrow additional funds from financiers, such as the Cohens in Algiers.’ There was a hint of satisfaction to his voice as he added, ‘If the Cohens charge their usual ten per cent interest, it will lessen any resentment should they ever discover that their name was used to trap the Chevalier.’
‘And what will happen to him while all this ransom is being collected?’
‘As long as the payments keep arriving, he will be kept closely confined and well treated. No one wants to see him perish. But should the flow of payments cease or slow to a trickle, then his conditions of imprisonment will worsen, and he will be given the opportunity to inform his family of his suffering. That should help loosen the purse strings once again.’
‘And what about the other men who tried to escape with him? Do you know what
happened to them?’
Maimaran glanced meaningfully at one of the muskets displayed on the wall. ‘Your companion, the one with the dark skin, is an excellent shot. The man he brought down with his pistol died this morning. The pistol ball broke his spine.’
‘And what about the other one? There was a third man who ran away. Has he been caught?’
‘Not yet, as far as I know. But he won’t get far. He is on his own and in a strange country. The commander of the palace guard has sent word to all the surrounding villages that a watch is to be kept for him. The commander wants him caught before the Emperor returns to Meknes, because it will look bad for him if a slave has been allowed to escape.’ Maimaran broke off for a moment as he reached out to readjust a pile of ledgers on an elegant table inlaid with mother of pearl. ‘But I did not ask you to come here to talk about the fate of the runaways. You told me earlier that you were trying to trace your sister who, you believe, might be captive in Morocco, and for this reason you wished to render a great service to the Emperor. Now that you have succeeded in the first part of that ambition, I was wondering what you planned to do next, and if there is any way in which I might help. You’ve made my task as comptroller of royal finances much easier, and I feel that I am in your debt.’
Hector looked around the strange disorder of valuables on display. There were enormous ostrich feather fans, heaps of costly rugs, beautifully worked saddles, an intricate-looking clock lying on its back on the floor, several looking glasses in gilded frames, a leopard skin. He guessed they were items of tribute rendered to the Emperor or seized by Moulay from his hapless subjects, and he remembered that Sean Allen had mentioned how Hakim Reis occasionally brought gunpowder as tribute to the Emperor.
