Shores of Barbary (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 12)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Hand flag response, sir. Acknowledgement.”

  The Master turned his telescope on the western battery.

  “Some sort of barrier, sir, across the road. Two guns run out, sir. Embrasures covering the road… Must be where the Dey, or whoever, would run to if his own people turned against him, sir.”

  “Well, he is going to be surprised, if that is him with the horses.”

  The horsemen had reformed into a tight-knit squadron surrounding two or three men in the centre.

  Frederick watched as they turned a last bend on the road uphill to the battery and saw the soldiers blocking their way; they reined in uncertainly, offering an even simpler target. The two guns fired.

  “They had grape there, Captain Arbuthnot.”

  “Messy, sir!”

  The soldiers were advancing, two platoons, Frederick thought, to tidy up.

  “I suspect I shall not have the job of hanging the Dey – or Bey. What is the difference between the two, do you know, Captain Arbuthnot?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But I doubt that he is concerned now, sir. Harfleur’s people are into the slave barracks, sir, if that is what it is. There are people running inland, sir, women and children and some men as well. You can see them behind the houses, sir, going up that bit of a slope towards the old fortress, sir.”

  The Roman fortification was nowhere more than four or five feet high, its walls collapsed over the centuries. It was useless for defence, but made an obvious place for running civilians to stop and take stock of the situation.

  “On deck! Action to west over, sir. No more powder smoke.”

  They had not been able to hear the broadsides over their own noise. Now they must wait to see what, if anything, appeared over the horizon.

  “Engagement lasted more than thirty minutes, sir.”

  Lieutenant Aggers had had a watch set – recording the events of any action part of his duties.

  Fighting a smaller ship, the frigate and sloop between them would expect to deal with the business in short order. Trying to slow a two-decker, they would have been cutting up bows and stern for hours, except they were careless or unlucky.

  “A heavy frigate? One of the big Venetians or Frogs?”

  Captain Arbuthnot had come to the same conclusion as Frederick; the only question now was which party had won.

  “The sloops should be in sight of the action inside the hour, Captain Arbuthnot. We will know then.”

  The boatloads of Marines were forming up and marching to the palace – if such it could be called; it looked more like a big house, in Frederick’s opinion.

  There were occasional shots through the town, corsairs cornered as they ran, or merchants perhaps, trying to defend their property. There was no organised defence, but the squadron was taking casualties, though not too many, hopefully.

  A pair of soldiers came to the wharf, boarded Harfleur; a loud-voiced officer shouted across to Conquest, half a cable distant from the shore.

  “Major Prentice reports resistance over. Eastern and western forts taken. Two villages visible inland, sir at two miles. Desert in the distance.”

  “Mr Aggers, write an order to Major Prentice to hold the batteries and road, no change to his original instructions. Prepare each battery for demolition. Inform him that the villages will be left as refuges for the civilian population. They will not go pirating from them, if their harbour is destroyed.”

  The word spread that the women and children and old folk would not be driven out into the desert to die. There was a general air of approval – making war on the womenfolk was something Bonaparte did; it was not the English way, the crew felt.

  The boats were working their way through the craft in the harbour, with no observable resistance, cutting the moorings of the galleys and towing them away from the merchantmen that were to be prized.

  Frederick noticed busy seamen running on the galleys’ decks, bringing baskets and bundles to the boats, shuttling them across to the larger xebecs. He wondered just what they had found of value aboard the shabby old pirates. Probably they had been preparing to go out on raids, he thought, possibly expecting whatever the ship was that Lachesis had come across to go with them. In that case, their own raid had been well timed. A dozen villages in Sicily might live that otherwise could have died.

  Better to give the men the cover of orders for their ‘salvage’ from the galleys.

  “Order your lieutenant in charge of the boats to recover all valuable materials from the galleys before firing them, Captain Arbuthnot.”

  “That will be much appreciated, sir.”

  “Probably no more than foodstuffs, some powder and ball perhaps, but better to make things official.”

  There was a delay of a few minutes before the first of the boats carrying the Marines ashore returned from the wharf.

  “Sir, Midshipman Oakeshott reports that he took soundings and there is five fathom water at least into the wharf.”

  “Bright lad! Take Conquest in and tie up behind Harfleur, Captain Arbuthnot.”

  It would be far easier to work from wharfside than from a mooring even a few yards offshore.

  “Sir, signal from Lachesis, relayed by Puffin.”

  Lachesis at least was still afloat; Frederick discovered he was relieved to know that.

  “Very good, Captain Arbuthnot.”

  “Begs to report, sir, met a frigate of forty guns, French, Valmy by name. Taken after thirty-two minutes action. Curlew under tow, wholly dismasted. Valmy under sail. Heavy losses to crews.”

  “Make ‘Lachesis and French prize to enter harbour. Well done. Puffin and Gannet to assist’. Send a lieutenant and the Carpenter to examine the yards here, Captain Arbuthnot. A party of seamen as escort. Determine whether any of the yards – I can see three – will be capable of putting a mast into a sloop. If not, which is best equipped to assist in the repairs. The xebecs are little smaller than our sloops – so the yards might be set up to perform the process.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Captain Arbuthnot gave the orders while watching the master bring Conquest starboard side to into her berth.

  “Secure the guns, Mr Smith.” The First Lieutenant acknowledged, calling the necessary orders.

  “Gun crews to remain closed up to the starboard battery on the poop, Mr Smith. Just in case.”

  Frederick approved Captain Arbuthnot’s order; it was his ship and he had the running of it, but Frederick would have done exactly the same in a hostile harbour taken within the past few hours. Better far to be safe.

  “Men coming from the slave barracks, sir.”

  A crowd of five hundred, more perhaps, of ragged figures, mostly more or less white, guided by Marines rather than escorted.

  “Released galley slaves, I must imagine, Captain Arbuthnot. Bring them aboard in the first instance. We shall decide what to do with them in time. For the moment, get them to safety here.”

  Six galleys, twenty oars a side, two men to each of the sweeps – the numbers seemed about right.

  Captain Arbuthnot surveyed the great mob of released slaves, wondering what to do with them. His lips twitched and he turned to his first lieutenant.

  “Deal with them, Mr Smith.”

  Frederick nodded gravely, suggested to his flag-captain that they should inspect the palace. Kavanagh appeared at his side with his pistol belt, the first time Frederick had needed arms since his injury two years before. There were two holsters on the belt, the left reversed, butt forward so that it could be drawn by the remaining right hand. There was a short hanger in place of his sword; without his left arm to give balance, Frederick would be hard put to wield a thirty-inch blade.

  “My thanks, Kavanagh! I had not thought about pistols.”

  “Worked it out with Bose, sir. Easy when we put our minds to it.”

  “Most things are easy, if you put a great effort into making them so. What is that Olsen is wearing?”

  The boy – youth now, Frederick supposed – ha
d a harness of a pair of leather cross-belts attached to a broad waist band; attached by hooks at shoulder height, he had two cut-down double-barrelled guns, the barrels no more than a foot long, the butt shortened to a pistol grip.

  “He’s not that good a pistol shot, sir. Can’t get the hang of a hand gun, so he made these up. A pair of wild-fowling guns, sir, eight bores, two ounces of shot to each barrel, and cut down so they can be used hand-to-hand. Don’t need be very accurate with them, sir. He’s strong, sir, exercises every day – ever since he was flogged, sir, having to build up the muscle he lost. Put him into a room or cabin, sir, or down on a gundeck, and he’d be blowing everything away.”

  “Fierce!”

  “So’s that blade he’s got across his back, sir. Old straight sword, sir, heavy cavalry issue, got to be damned near four foot on the blade and as wide across as your palm. Swing it double-handed, so he reckons.”

  “Remind to step well clear if he starts swinging that thing, Kavanagh!”

  “We’ll all be well back, sir. I’ve picked up the launch’s crew to go with us, sir. Can’t go out in town without an escort.”

  Frederick nodded – there was nothing to be said. The men fell in, four in front, four behind as they walked down the brow to the wharf, Kavanagh, Bosomtwi and Olsen close to Frederick’s shoulder on one side, Captain Arbuthnot and his coxswain to the other.

  The palace – which was an overblown name for the big house, Frederick thought – echoed with the shouts and whistles of the sailors who were working their way through every room. Four veiled women and a dozen or so of children sat terrified under guard at the main doors. A searching glance showed no torn clothing, no evidence that the sailors had laid hands on them.

  A midshipman came running out, obviously told of his captain’s presence.

  “Beg pardon, sir. The womenfolk are the Bey’s wives, we think, sir. And his children. All the servants are just inside, sir, but they wouldn’t stay out here with the women. Don’t know why, sir. The men are trying to break down some big locked doors, sir, inside. With permission, sir, we wish to call the Gunner to come and blow them open, sir. Don’t know what might be inside, sir.”

  Visions of treasure all over the boy’s face.

  Captain Arbuthnot shook his head.

  “Call the boatswain before we risk explosions, Mr Blantyre. Amazing what a seaman can do if he puts some thought into it. Send a man for him now. Let’s have a look at it.”

  There was a short passageway which led into a large hall, a reception chamber not much greater than the hall at Abbey, Frederick thought. The ruler here was much more of a sort of country gentleman than a scion of royalty. There were four doors, three open and leading into the interior of the house, one, larger and heavier than the others, locked shut.

  “Staircase behind sir, leads up to the balcony round the hall, sir, and into the chambers upstairs. Found some jewellery and silks and things upstairs, sir – in the pile under guard over in the corner, sir. Can’t speak the lingo, sir, to talk to the servants, ask them where anything is.”

  Frederick could solve that problem.

  “We have released some hundreds of slaves, Captain Arbuthnot. We must suppose that some will have learned the language.”

  A seaman was sent running to seek out an interpreter.

  The boatswain appeared, was pointed to the door, sniffed dismissively, briefly ordered two men back to the ship to collect specified items.

  “Hinges are on the inside, sir. Three big iron locks. Wooden door frame set in a stone wall, sir. Can’t get the door open, so go the other way into it, sir.”

  Ten minutes and four men returned, carrying long crow bars and a hammer and cold chisels.

  “Cut the woodwork off the wall, Mick.”

  The seaman with hammer and chisel briefly inspected the frame, set a chisel into a place that seemed good to him, tapped it once to set it, then struck three firm blows. The outer timber of the frame bulged away from the stonework; a twist of a crowbar and it clattered to the floor, exposing the hinges. Five minutes with hammer and cold chisel cut the stone away so that the crowbar could wrench the hinge out.

  The process was repeated twice more and then crowbars were pushed in top and bottom and two men heaved on each and the door popped out. They forced it wide open and stepped back.

  The boatswain inspected the locks.

  “Powerful old lumps of good steel, sir. They’d have held forever, sir. They just don’t never think about the other side of the door, sir. Ain’t that so, Mick?”

  “Sadly it is, sir, and very tempting it was to a poor man with a hammer and chisel to hand for being apprentice to a mason, sir.”

  “And so you took to the sea, to avoid temptation, I presume?”

  “You might put it that way, sir, although there are the uncharitable, who might say that I ran like hell and managed to volunteer before the constable could catch up with me, sir.”

  Frederick laughed – it was none of his business.

  “What can we see inside?”

  It was the treasure chamber, as they had hoped, but contained the spoils of pirates who had spent many years raiding poor villages rather than prosperous towns. They had taken slaves in plenty, but very little of gold and silver and almost nothing by way of gems.

  “Ah, well, Captain Arbuthnot. Perhaps the merchants’ houses will yield riches.”

  “They’ll need to, sir, if the Prize Fund is to come to more than tuppence ha’penny a man.”

  They wandered through the rest of the building, unimpressed by the decoration and its general air of slovenliness; it was the sort of thing they might have associated with a petty squire in the deepest backwoods rather than with a pirate king of the Barbary Corsairs.

  Two interpreters arrived, slaves who had been years in captivity and had learned the local tongue. Both had been English merchant seamen.

  “Taken out of a wine shipper, sir, off the Spanish coast twenty years since. Hawkins, sir, was me name. I was the supercargo’s boy and learning the trade, as was. Put me to an oar, they did, sir, the bastards. Stayed there since, sir. Won’t be nothing in England for me, sir. Not now. Might as well join, sir, if so be you needs hands.”

  Captain Arbuthnot nodded – there would be a place, there were always dead men’s shoes to be filled.

  “I did not know that a man could last so long on the oars, Hawkins.”

  “Can’t, sir, not always, unbroken. But the galleys only go out once or twice a year maybe, from ‘ere, sir. Don’t suppose we was ever out for more than a month at a time. More every year, sir, it was the sailing xebecs that went out raiding, not the galleys so much. Don’t ‘ave slaves on the sailing ships, sir. When you comes down to it, we sat on our backsides in the barracks damn near ten times as much as we rowed at sea. Not many new slaves getting kept, sir – they was mostly sold down Benghazi way. Just several ‘undred of us kept on, for old times’ sake, you might say.”

  “We intend to strip this palace of all of its treasure, Hawkins. Do you know where it is kept?”

  Frederick was still hopeful of wealth to be discovered.

  “Ain’t much of it hereabouts, sir. Might be a bit in the Bey’s treasure chamber. His wives will ‘ave a bit in the way of jewels to wear, but not much. Most of what money there is will be found in the merchant’s strongrooms, sir. Thing is, sir, that the Bey wasn’t no good Muslim – come from inland, in the desert, his family did, and kept to the ways of they Bedu folks, what ain’t much liked by the blokes up on the coast ‘ere. So the taxes ‘e paid to the lord over in Benghazi was mortal ‘igh, sir. Take Benghazi now, sir, and it would be millions, but not ‘ere, sir.”

  They collected all they could from the palace, including some silver goblets and a few cups inlaid with seed pearls and turquoise and some small garnets, but the haul was pitifully thin. The armoury was more profitable, containing some amount of modern muskets of the French pattern and dozens of blades made of the finest steel. There were some field pie
ces as well, small guns and easily portable, possibly to be taken aboard ship and brought to use inland when a port was taken.

  There were four large merchant houses, each with full warehouses attached. They were emptied of their silks and cottons and carpets and tapestries, most of which would sell at auction in London. They were surprised to come across several thousands of bottles of wines and brandies, very welcome aboard ship and mostly not being counted into the Prize Fund. The interpreters said that the prohibition on alcohol was not too strongly observed for most of the year, pirates tending to have their own ideas on religion.

  The greatest value to the squadron resided in the shipyards, the largest of them especially useful.

  “Set up with French stores, Sir Frederick. The frigate Valmy can be made seaworthy within the week, sir, and will make Malta easily. Curlew can be remasted, sir. They don’t have the proper equipment as such, sir, but they have a sort of crane thing with pulleys what can be made to work, sir.”

  Conquest’s boatswain was sure that he would be able to refit Curlew without need for her to go into a naval dockyard. She need not be lost to the squadron for six months.

  “Some gain, at least. You are sure that Lachesis must go in?”

  “Yes, sir. Ain’t no choice, sir. She took too much, sir, in the way of twenty-four pound broadsides in the bows, sir.”

  Frederick had congratulated Captain O’Neill of Lachesis and Captain Griffiths of Curlew on their victory, had admired their boldness in public, while privately deploring the utter lack of basic sense that the pair had displayed. Captain O’Neill had chosen in his thirty-two gun twelve pound frigate to exchange broadsides with a new Frenchman of forty twenty-four pounders.

  “Sixteen twelves, Captain O’Neill, are to give you a broadside of one hundred and ninety-two pounds, plus two of twenty-four pound carronades – a grand total of two hundred and forty pounds. Against that Valmy threw exactly twice as much, twenty times twenty-four amounting to four hundred and eighty pounds.”

  “Ah, you’re right there, sir. But there was Curlew to cross her bows and stern besides and I expected to board as quickly as might be.”