Contents
Title
Books
Author Notes
Dedication
The Texan and the Egyptian
Thank You
The Texan
and
The Egyptian
By
Paul Summerhayes
Books by Paul Summerhayes:
Books in The Sky Fire Chronicles:
The Texan and the Egyptian (Prequel short story)
1. Coming September 2017
Books in the Warden Saga:
1. The King’s Warden
2. The Warden’s Sword
3. The Warden and the Shadow Queen
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Paul Summerhayes
All rights reserved.
This book is dedicated to all who love to read.
The Texan and the Egyptian
A cargo ship, Atlantic Ocean
1865
“Stand back,” said a dark-skinned boy, his accent thick. He was not an English speaking native.
“You’re a feisty little squirt, aren’t you?” said the tall man, a Texan. He wore civilian clothes, but he stood straight like a soldier. With calloused hands on his hips, he stared down at the small dark-haired boy with amusement. The boy, no more than ten, showed more courage than many men he had fought alongside. “And why should I stand back, little man?”
“You come too close to my mistress,” said the boy, showing no fear.
“Oh, is that a fact?” The tall Texan couldn’t help but smile at the boy’s bravado. “And just who is your mistress?”
“My mistress is not for the likes of you. She is like the heavens and you, a crawling bug.” The boy’s disdain for the soldier was obvious. He spoke like a spoiled rich kid, but was dressed in simple clothes and sandals, like a street urchin.
“Well, I’ve never…I oughta spank your hide, boy, or throw you overboard. That’s no way to talk to your elders.”
“What’s going on here?” said a woman, her accent as strong as the boy’s. Her skin was sun-tanned and she was tall, but not as tall as the lanky Texan, who towered over most. Her straight, black hair was not restrained as the current western fashions dictated, it hung loosely down her back, contrasting with her long, white figure-hugging dress. Like the boy, she looked Arabic, but the Texan could have been wrong. He knew little of the world outside of his native America. All he knew was that she was beautiful, and he found her unusual appearance fascinating.
Who is this?
The Egyptian woman looked from the boy to the Texan, and then back to the boy. “Ahmed, what is wrong?”
“Nothing, mistress, this man is too close.” The boy lowered his head, speaking to the woman’s sandaled feet.
“The boy meant no harm, ma’am. He just needs to learn some manners.”
Her unwavering brown eyes, emphasized with thick black eyeliner, met the Texan’s stare. He could sense something strange about her, and it wasn’t her unusual attire or makeup. No doubt, this was a woman who was accustomed to being obeyed.
“My name is Harris Sullivan,” he said, extending his hand.
A brief smile touched her lips and without acknowledging him, she turned and walked away, strolling along the deck toward the front of the ship. The young boy shot a menacing look at Sullivan, before turning and following after his mistress.
Removing his hat, the Texan smoothed back his unruly hair, unsure of what he had just witnessed. “Well ain’t that the strangest thing?” he muttered. “The colonel’s gonna love this.”
Sullivan entered a small cabin located at the back of the ship, where three rowdy men played cards at a square table. Like the Texan, they were soldiers in the Confederacy and for their current mission, they too wore civilian clothes.
Gambling their money away, thought Sullivan. By the time we reach home, two of them will be broke and one will be holding all the money…unless they realize that Dyson is cheating.
“You wanna join in, Sarge?” asked Smith. Sullivan always thought the man’s name was an alias—it was the name he gave when he enlisted.
“And lose what little money General Lee is paying me?” replied the Texan. “No, thanks.”
The men went back to their game and Sullivan glanced over at Colonel Burke. The old man was lying on his back on a bunk bed and as usual, he was scribbling in his journal. What he was writing was unknown to the men, but some of them had theories not worth repeating.
“Ah, Sergeant Sullivan, there you are,” said the colonel, looking up from his writing. “Where have you been? Never mind, we have no time for that now.”
“What’s wrong, sir?” asked Sullivan.
“It’s Private Williams. He’s missing.”
Williams was little more than a boy, just out of his teens. He was the youngest member of the team and seemed trustworthy and honest, which was more than Sullivan could say about the three men playing cards, Dyson, Smith and Woods. These older men seemed more like thugs and criminals than professional soldiers. Apart from the colonel, Sullivan outranked the other four men in their unit, but at twenty-two, he wasn’t much older than Williams.
The enlisted men didn’t know yet, but the officers did—the Confederate States of America’s days were numbered. They were short on men, food and weapons. In the hull below there were crates of British Enfield rifles, balls and powder for the war effort. All bought and paid for by some rich southern benefactor, no doubt. Their mission was to escort these weapons from England to home—six southern sons to guard a thousand guns. It was an easy job, and after fighting for the last few years, it gave them much needed time away from the war.
“Well, man, have you seen Williams?” asked the colonel.
“No, sir,” replied Sullivan. His thoughts had drifted back to the beautiful Egyptian woman and her white dress. “He’s probably below, guarding the weapons, sir,” he managed to say.
“Hmm. We’re in the middle of the ocean, there’re no northerners here.” The colonel picked up his journal again, opening it to where he left off. “Sullivan, take a man and have a look.”
“Yes, sir. Woods, let’s go.”
“What?” Woods looked up from the card game. He was a bearded man, ten years Sullivan’s senior. “But, Sarge, I’m just about to start winning.”
“Not when Dyson’s got cards stuffed up his sleeves, you ain’t.”
“What? Dyson, you prick!” Woods and Smith stood abruptly, glaring down at their grinning companion. “You cheating bastard. I oughta cut your balls off.” A long hunting knife appeared in Woods’ hand and he pointed the blade at Dyson. Woods was uneducated, but he had proven himself as a capable knife fighter and Dyson knew it.
“Private Woods!” The Texan’s firm tone cut the building tension. “Kill Dyson later, we’ve been assigned a task. Let’s go.”
“Yeah, sir.”
For a moment, an uneasy feeling crept over Sullivan as they stood at the top of the ladder leading down into the cargo hull. He hesitated, patting his Colt Navy revolver in its holster on his hip.
Just in case.
“You expectin’ trouble, Sarge?” Woods was watching the tall Texan.
“I’m not sure. You armed?”
Woods drew out his big hunting knife from under his jacket. “
Shit, Sarge, I’m from Alabama. We’re born carrying knives.”
Woods sheathed his weapon as Sullivan lit an oil lamp. Even though it was still early afternoon, the lighting would not be good in the hull. The Texan placed a foot on the ladder, when a voice stopped him.
“Where’re you Yankees going?”
The two soldiers turned to face the speaker. It was the ship’s captain, a rosy-cheeked Englishman glaring at them suspiciously. Woods reached into his jacket, no doubt going for his blade, but Sullivan rested a firm hand on his companion’s arm, stopping him from making a mistake.
“We ain’t Yankees, Captain,” replied Sullivan, trying to smile. “We’re just honest southern merchants importing machinery for our cotton farms.”
“If you say so.” The captain turned to go, but stopped. “Have you ‘merchants’ had any run-ins with my sailors?”
“No, sir. We’re peaceful folk. Why?”
“Three men didn’t report for duty this morning.”
“Williams—” Woods stopped talking when Sullivan squeezed his arm.
“Maybe they’re drunk somewhere,” offered the Texan.
“Maybe.” The captain didn’t look convinced. “If you find them, drunk or otherwise, tell them I want to see them.”
“Will do, sir.”
Sullivan released his grip on Woods’ arm and the two soldiers watched the captain walk away. Woods was the first to break the silence. “What’s going on here, Sarge? Williams is missing, and now these sailors.”
“I’m not sure.”
Movement attracted Sullivan’s attention and he glanced up at the greying sky. Several large birds circled high above the ship’s billowing sails, riding the air currents without flapping their wings. They were in the middle of the Atlantic, but these large birds reminded him of the black Texan vultures which he often saw feasting on cattle carcasses. He wasn’t superstitious, but the birds gave him a bad feeling.
“Regardless, we gotta check those guns.”
Rats scurried out of the lamplight, disappearing behind large timber crates as Sullivan climbed down the ladder into the hull. Grumbling, Woods followed. The ship rolled over a large wave, causing Sullivan to steady himself against a thick timber beam with his free hand. In his other hand the lamp swayed, casting moving shadows around the crates and barrels stacked in rows. Under the floorboards, water sloshed with the roll of the ship. The sailors had told them this was normal. All ships leaked. He was a plainsman and it was his first time at sea, making him wonder how these big pieces of wood stayed afloat.
“I hate the sea,” muttered Woods, and for once Sullivan agreed with him.
The Volador was primarily a cargo ship with only a few births for paying customers. Its large timber hull was filled high with cargo of all shapes and sizes, headed for southern American ports.
The ship’s motion returned to a gentle roll allowing Sullivan’s footing to steady. He held the lamp high, peering into the semi-darkness. Nearby, the boxes were stacked higher than his head, blocking his vision to where he knew their rifles were stowed, and hopefully where they would find Williams.
Waves bashed against the hull in a regular rhythm, which for many would have sounded soothing. Not so for a man born in the back of a wagon on a Texan plain. After glancing at his companion, Sullivan moved toward their crates. Woods followed closely behind him.
Thin beams of light streamed through cracks in the cargo hatch-doors above their heads, aiding as they maneuvered around the boxes. They had moved past a few boxes when something unseen fell. The tall Texan stopped, his hand dropping onto his revolver’s handle. Over the splashing waves it was hard to tell where or what the sound was.
“What was that?” whispered Woods. He had heard it, too.
Sullivan remained silent, his eyes roaming the gloom for any movement. He placed the lamp on the damp floorboards and drew his long-barrelled revolver. “Anyone here?” he said, holding his weapon out in front. There was no sound except the lapping of the waves against the hull, and Woods’ heavy breathing.
“Let’s go, Sarge. Williams ain’t down here…” Woods’ voice trailed off. The man was nervous.
Thud.
There was something down here with them!
The Texan cocked his revolver’s hammer, making an audible click. If war had taught him anything, it was the proficiency of killing with a gun. He scanned his surroundings but nothing moved. “This is your last chance. Show yourself.”
Something moved on his right and Sullivan’s gun barrel followed the motion. He squeezed his trigger slightly, but something stopped him from shooting randomly into the darkness. His heart thumped in his chest and the seconds ticked by slowly.
“Don’t shoot,” said a small voice.
“Show yourself. Slowly.”
A few yards away, a small shape moved out from behind a box. It was Ahmed. Sullivan breathed out in relief and uncocked his gun. “What are you doing down here?”
“Obeying my mistress,” said the dark-skinned boy, his eyes reflecting the lamplight.
“Doing what exactly?” asked Woods.
Calmly, the boy turned to face Woods. “That is not knowledge for the uninitiated.”
“Why you little shit—”
“Woods!” Sullivan noticed the man’s big hunting knife was in his hand. “Stand down.” Would he really kill a child?
“You shouldn’t be down here, it’s dangerous,” said Sullivan. “These boxes could move and crush you.”
Ahmed remained silent, looking from man to man as though he was weighing their worth.
There was something about the boy’s mannerism that Sullivan didn’t like.
“Get out of here,” said Woods. He watched the boy suspiciously as he moved silently past them.
Sullivan stopped the boy with a gentle hand on his thin shoulder. “Have you seen anyone else down here?”
Ahmed locked eyes with the Texan. “No. You Americans shouldn’t be down here, it’s too dangerous.”
“You cheeky little brat,” said Woods. “Someone oughta take a lash to your rear—”
“Enough.” Sullivan released his hold on Ahmed. The boy moved over to the ladder and started to climb up and with a backward glance, he disappeared through the hatch above.
“I don’t like that kid,” said Woods.
“He’s different, that’s for sure. Let’s check the guns and get out of here.”
There was no sign of Williams in the hull, but the gun crates were secure. They headed back to their cabin and entered without knocking. The room was empty. Surprisingly, the cards and money were still on the table. It looked like Dyson and Smith had just up and walked away mid-game.
The hairs stood up on the back of Sullivan’s neck—something felt wrong. I don’t like this.
“Where’s everyone?” asked Woods.
“That’s a good question.”
It was odd, the colonel’s leather-bound journal was lying on his bunk. The book was never far from the old man. Sullivan scooped the book up and flicked to the last page. Yesterday’s entry was written in a bold, flowing script, where today’s was a spidery scrawl. It was almost as if a different person had written in the book. Strange. Sullivan skimmed the last entry.
January tenth, 1865: Williams didn’t report for duty. The men’s morale is low and they are becoming disobedient and rebellious. The voice from below tells me Sullivan will lead the men in mutiny soon. I must remain vigilant and be prepared to fight in defense of our cargo.
The old man has finally cracked.
He tossed the book back onto the bunk and surveyed the room. Everything seemed to be in its correct place and there was no sign of a struggle.
“Dyson’s revolver is gone,” said Woods, looking into a chest. “And so is Smith’s.”
“What happened here?” Sullivan removed his wide-brimmed hat and smoothed back his hair. This doesn’t make sense. They have obviously left in a hurry. But why?
There was a knock on the cabin d
oor.
Instantly, the Texan’s gun was in his hand and he thumbed back its hammer. Replacing his hat, he glanced at Woods. The Alabamian stood in a half crouch with his hunting knife in his hand. The man was scared, but he looked ready to fight.
Sullivan held his breath and tiptoed to the door. Quickly he turned the handle and threw open the door, thrusting his gun into the visitor’s face. It was the captain. Surprised, the Englishman took a step back, throwing up his hands.
“Don’t shoot!”
The Texan released his breath and lowered his revolver. “What’s going on?”
“More strange things are happening,” said the captain. “More of my crew have disappeared.”
“Come in.”
The captain entered, standing just inside the room.
“Tell us what’s happened,” said Sullivan.
“Two weeks ago, one of my men went missing. I suspected he was drunk and fell overboard. It happens from time to time, but eleven more men have vanished since then and two of them in the last hour.”
“It sounds like the devil’s work,” said Woods softly.
“I fear you might be right.”
“Sounds like superstition,” said Sullivan. “There must be a logical explanation for all this.”
“I hope for all our sakes, you are right,” replied the captain. “The men believe our problems are due to the Egyptian woman and her kin. They believe they are bad luck.”
“Are they? What do you think?”
“I’m not sure if the men are right, but I have instructed my sailors to work in pairs. I suggest you do the same. Where are the rest of your associates?”
“That is something we don’t know.”
“We are only a few days from your homeland, stay in your cabin and keep your guns near.”
“You can be sure of that,” replied Sullivan.
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