Shadow of the Corsairs

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  “North, Mr. Nash. I’ll give you a more precise course in a moment.”

  Jonathan looked up to meet Elias’ surprised face. “I can navigate, Mr. Nash. I spent nearly fifteen years working with European explorers. I can read a map and charts and use a sextant. And, by land or sea, there’s very little difference as long as you know where you are.”

  Another cannon shot came close but fell short, resulting in an almighty eruption of water and spume off the bow. This time, in the aftermath, the sound of the drums was definitely, if faintly, audible.

  “Then we’re in God’s hands and yours, Mr. Afua.”

  Jonathan concentrated on the chart before him as Elias adjusted their course on his instruction. From the corner of his eye, Jonathan caught another breathless sailor running up to the poop deck. It was Hardacre. “Start tacking maneuvers, Elias. Just like I taught you. Just like we’ve done in drills.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Nash answered, but he didn’t sound particularly confident to Jonathan. His heart sank. The man sounded as much a novice as he was. Any further thought was lost in the roar of cannon fired from the Terpsichore’s main deck.

  Jonathan kept his eye on the compass as Elias began to tack, but couldn’t help a glance ahead. As the vessel roiled from the recently fired cannons, coming into view through the jungle of lines and shroud was a small mountain emerging on the horizon.

  “She’s measuring up to ram us, Captain!”

  Jonathan snatched up the telescope. A mix of anger and fear governed his actions now.

  No way in hell, would he allow himself to be captured again.

  He squinted, getting used to the change in view, and reoriented his direction. There! To the right… starboard, emerging from the deep green, was the “pile of rocks” he was looking for and, indeed, it was an island. At the speed and direction they were going, they’d sail right past the tip of it, shepherded further and further away by the galiot.

  Another report from the Terpsichore’s cannons deafened him once more.

  “There’s no more shot left in the hold, Captain!”

  Jonathan gritted his teeth. He swung the telescope around and found the galiot, its brown lateen sail full and straining forward like a savage dog, the morning sun glinting on the long oars as they rowed in unison.

  “More sail!” Hardacre’s voice carried over the rest. “And arm yourselves!”

  She’s going to ram, she’s going to ram, she’s going to ram...

  Jonathan’s back was drenched in sweat.

  A minute later, the galiot was almost upon them as they skirted parallel to the basalt eruptions that edged this side of the pile of rocks they called Catallus. The cruel black basalt was perhaps only four hundred yards away.

  Once again, Hardacre joined them on the bridge and addressed Elias.

  “It’s risky, but we have one more trick up our sleeves. On my command, bring her about hard toward Catallus.”

  Jonathan held his breath.

  “Now!”

  Elias pulled the wheel around hard, the muscles in his arms straining with the action. The ship responded with a groan, cutting right before the galiot’s bow. The corsairs’ cannons fired once more, taking the very tip off the mainmast but otherwise the cannonballs shot through harmlessly.

  “Take up the slack on the mainmast!”

  “We’re heading straight for those rocks,” Jonathan warned. Elias heaved the wheel back, but the momentum and the wind pushed them closer and closer to the basalt.

  All of a sudden, Jonathan became aware of the ship not as a vessel of wood, iron, and rope, but instead it was as if the Terpsichore had become a living thing. And if he didn’t know better, he could have sworn he heard it scream as it shuddered violently, pressed onto the rocks. Then the noise stopped.

  “Mr. Grace! Gus! Man the pumps!”

  “What now, Captain?” Elias asked through clenched teeth.

  Jonathan had the answer.

  “There! A gap between the rocks.”

  Elias heaved at the wheel. Beneath him, Jonathan could feel the ship shift off the basalt, taking them away from Catallus once again. He relinquished the telescope to Hardacre.

  “There’s a small breakwater ahead, and the galiot is swinging around,” Hardacre called. “Stay the course, Elias, the corsairs haven’t seen it yet.”

  Jonathan moved away from the helm. He was no sailor, but common sense told him they were trapped between the galiot and the rocks. The slaving ship could pound the Terpsichore.

  He closed his eyes a moment.

  Mellesse, my love, I’ll be seeing you in paradise far sooner than I thought, at the hands of a lunatic Englishman.

  The cannons on the Terpsichore fell silent as the shot ran out.

  Jonathan lifted his head from his silent prayer and cast his eyes across the deck where sailors stood armed with whatever they had – some brandished cutlasses and scimitars, others had pistols or clubs. Together, they watched the galiot begin the turn that would present her guns.

  At that moment, a gust of wind hit both vessels broadside. The hull of the Terpsichore scraped against the submerged rocks again just briefly, but the galiot, much more exposed to the wind, was swept hard against them. The blades of the oars were no match for the rocks beneath; the sound of splitting timber carried with the breeze.

  The crew of the Terpsichore cheered in unison.

  “She’s turning away!”

  The lateen sails were filled to straining as the slave ship moved off, carrying her further away until she had disappeared from view behind an outcrop of grey rocks.

  “Come on, men, there’s still work to do!” Hardacre yelled. “Trim the sails – that’s our destination!”

  Jonathan looked where Hardacre pointed, a narrow gap between a line of rocks. There was no way on earth a ship the size of the Terpsichore could make it through. She was too wide, surely.

  “Mr. Grace, bring up the powder.”

  “Captain? We have no shot left, we don’t have enough chain either –”

  “No chain. Just powder, a lot of it. We’re going to do a disappearing trick. Giorgio! Get all the braziers up on deck.” Hardacre glanced his way. “Make yourself useful, Mr. Afua. Give him a hand.”

  Before Jonathan knew it, he was in the hold with Algernon Grace, hauling up small barrels of powder until all fifteen were on deck. Every man did as instructed. No one complained. How could one man achieve such unquestioning loyalty and labor?

  He was beginning to understand what Hardacre had in mind. The small deck guns were primed with powder, so too were three braziers close to the port rail.

  He watched the recovering galiot make its way back toward them. He glanced at Hardacre and wished he had the telescope. Instead, he put his hand to shade his eyes where he could make out the disarray on deck. So far, their enemy had not primed their cannons.

  The ship struggled on the power of its sail alone since half its oars were useless, and yet it would not go away without a fight. The crew of the Terpsichore jeered at their enemy with obscene gestures and words.

  “She’s getting closer,” Elias observed.

  “The wind is drawing her in,” answered Hardacre, his attention firmly fixed through the telescope. “Estimate. How far away are they from the reef?”

  Elias glanced to Jonathan and shrugged, helpless. Jonathan sought a reference as he had done when surveying the landscape with Gottleib. The Terpsichore herself! He looked along the length of the ship, estimated its length, and extrapolated out to the galiot.

  “About ninety yards,” he answered.

  “Tell me when they’re thirty yards away, Mr. Afua. And keep her steady, Mr. Nash. We don’t have much room for error ourselves.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Jonathan and Elias answered in unintended unity. The two men exchanged a brief, tight smile. Neither underestimated the danger they were in. Jonathan watched the chop on the water, drawing a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

  He drew his next breath and c
alled out, “Thirty yards!”

  “Fire the guns!”

  Black powder erupted from the cannons, noisy but harmless without projectiles. The billowing smoke obscured the galiot. The powder in the braziers sent roiling clouds of black across the deck. The tension on the Terpsichore was palpable. Every ear strained to hear the sound of a responding cannon’s roar or the sound of a ship foundering on rocks.

  And suddenly, there it was, the evil screech of a vessel running aground, the crack of splitting timbers, and the wretched screams of the slaves at the oars. It was a cacophony from a nightmare – like the night Jonathan was taken and his family killed. He didn’t realize how hard he gripped the rail until he felt the aching tension in his knuckles. When he looked up, the smoke was vanishing and there, on the reef, was the galiot, canted on its broken keel, the deck exposed to the Terpsichore.

  How on earth had Hardacre ever come up with such an audacious scheme? Jonathan wondered. For such a young man, a good five years younger than himself, he seemed to have the confidence and experience of someone much older.

  The crew cheered, wildly laughing at the disarray of the galiot’s deck crew scrambling to right themselves.

  “Mr. Grace, prepare the chain shot.”

  The older sailor slapped a few men on the shoulders as he passed, and they followed him below deck.

  “Are you sure that’s what you want to do, Captain? There are men shackled below on that ship, trapped below decks. You risk drowning them.” Elias spoke softly, like a voice of conscience.

  “Well, let’s see if we can help them break loose instead.”

  Jonathan watched the men load the heavy gauge chain into the barrel of one cannon and ram it in, then he moved to stand well back as Mr. Grace lit the fuse. The cannon rocked back on its trucks, a puff of black smoke rose mixed with the smell of hot metal, and a black gash suddenly appeared along the deck of the galiot. A moment later, the wind brought the sound of terrified cries.

  Hardacre ordered another round prepared.

  “Fire!”

  Jonathan was certain he could hear the sound of the chain exiting the barrel this time. A moment later, timber exploded from the stricken galiot.

  “Shall we see if they’ve had enough, men?”

  Hardacre looked positively gleeful, and brought the telescope to his eye once again. Everyone waited.

  “Lower the boats! It looks like we might have some guests this evening!”

  Jonathan elected to remain onboard the Terpsichore with Elias and a skeleton crew while most of the others made their way across to the wrecked galiot in small boats.

  He had no doubt there would be bodies by the score – drowned, crushed, or torn apart by cannon and chain shot. He had witnessed enough death and wasn’t particularly interested in seeing more, so he crossed to the other side of the deck and examined the geological feature that both saved them and nearly brought them to doom.

  It seemed to have been made by a giant’s hand that picked large, black boulders and piled them in a heap. Between two arms of rocks, through the channel he’d observed earlier, he caught a glimpse of what looked like a building.

  He moved further along the deck. No, he hadn’t been mistaken. The channel opened into a lagoon. And what he could see was not just one building, but many, nestled into the rock that rose up to a headland on top of which appeared to be a large ruin.

  “I see you’ve spotted the secret of Catallus,” said Elias, walking up beside him.

  “What is it?”

  “A Roman villa. Or what’s left of it.”

  “Did the Romans call this island Catallus?”

  “I don’t know. It’s what Kit calls it. I’m not sure why. He said it was the name of some ancient poet, but he never did explain why he chose that name in particular. It’s now his bolt hole when he’s had enough of people. Occasionally, fishermen stop and rest here while the tuna is running, but it’s mostly uninhabited.”

  Elias paused and pulled something out of a pouch he had at his waist. “Here. I believe this belongs to you.”

  He held out a piece of jewelry. Jonathan stared at it. The sun created a dark blue glow in the polished sapphire beads, broken up at intervals with gold bicone beads. It terminated with a plaited cross of unburnished gold.

  “I found it in the chest at Kaddouri’s stronghold. I held it for safe keeping. Everything gets shared equally on the Terpsichore, but I thought this should be returned to its rightful owner.”

  He took it from Elias’s hand. The cool of the gold and the warmth of the sapphire brought back more than memories. He had imagined it lost, stolen when the slavers raided their camp,

  “How did you know it was mine?”

  “I recognized the cross. I saw some like it from traders when I was a missionary in Algeria. It’s an Ethiopian cross, isn’t it? There’s an inscription. I recognize the script, but I can’t read the words.”

  For that, Jonathan was glad. The message was for him alone. He recalled it as though it was yesterday, a gift given to him by Mellesse on the day she told him she was first with child.

  No, as much as he’d come to like and trust some of the men on this ship, he was not ready to share this part of his life. Better if he changed the subject.

  “You were a missionary?”

  Elias nodded.

  “How did you end up a pirate?”

  “I ask myself the same question often,” Elias smiled. “It’s a long story, but I ended up penniless and alone in Palermo, and, before I knew it, I wasn’t heading home anymore. This,” he said, stretching his arms out wide to encompass the ship, “was my home; this was my new life.”

  Jonathan instinctively knew there was more to tell but, right now, reluctant to reveal more about himself, it was enough. He unfastened the catch on the necklace and put the cross around his neck.

  “What’s Hardacre’s story?”

  Elias looked over to the reef and the wrecked galiot. The captain was visible above the rest with his blond hair, a glint of gold from his earring catching in the light.

  “He spent ten years as a captive of the corsairs. He was taken as a boy. He’s never gotten over it.”

  Jonathan knew what was left unsaid. Hardacre would have been pretty as a boy. With his pale skin and hair, he would have been highly prized by the Ottomans.

  “These are good men, Jonathan” Elias continued, “and they’ve all lost someone or something because of the Barbary Coast pirates. Playing merry hell with them seems a kind of fitting revenge.”

  The explanation was unasked for, but apparently Elias Nash felt the need to defend his friends.

  “Does that make you their priest?”

  Elias shrugged. “Someone’s got to look after them.”

  “Better you than me, then.”

  Elias gave him a small smile but he started to turn. Jonathan held up the cross he wore around his neck.

  “Thank you. This means more to me than you know.”

  Elias nodded and walked away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jonathan felt the strain across his shoulders braced against the rail of the Terpsichore. His legs were bent almost in half, walking crab-like against the rocks on the port side of the ship.

  The grunts and groans of men laboriously guiding the ship through the gap were matched by his own. There was nothing keeping Jonathan on the ship except the force of his own strength, his body a fulcrum to keep the ship on its course.

  However, one slip of his foot on the slick rocks or one unexpected movement would have him crushed, leaving him no better off than the poor bastards they had left on the reef.

  On the deck of the Terpsichore, prisoners – both sailor and slave alike – were blindfolded and made to sit cross-legged on the deck, their arms tied behind them. It was not an unreasonable precaution when there was no ready way to tell friend from foe.

  Over his head, missing it by inches, an oar reached out and connected with the rock.

  Jonathan slipped. He scr
ambled for purchase on the cargo net that had been dropped over the side of the hull and clambered back up to the deck just as the widest part of the vessel slid past the rocks with mere inches to spare.

  The Terpsichore had eased its way through into the lagoon and was sheltered in its embrace.

  Hardacre ordered the sails furled and the anchor dropped.

  The deck looked like a salvage yard. Anything and everything deemed remotely useful occupied every possible spot.

  And coming in behind were four small boats, also filled to the gunwales with various flotsam and jetsam.

  “Headcount, Gus!” Hardacre yelled.

  “Forty, Captain. We'll have names for them all them shortly.”

  “Where's the captain of that leaky dhow?”

  “We've bound him hand and foot and locked him in your cabin.”

  “Did you get a name out of him?”

  “Yes. Ahmed Sharrouf.”

  “Right, then. I’ll be having a little chat with him. Get Mr. Grace to take some of these men and store everything on shore. And double check the roof of the storehouse. Repair it if need be. I want to be back out to sea by sundown.

  Hardacre glanced Jonathan’s way, “Take Mr. Afua with you. After his close call today, I think he’d much rather feel the earth beneath his feet for a while.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Jonathan watched Hardacre take the aft stairs two at a time, exhibiting the boundless energy that he’d exhibited right from their first encounter.

  “Does your captain ever sleep?” he asked Mr. Grace.

  “When he’s in one of these moods he can go for days without sleeping,” he said. “Then there be days where none of us sees him, that’s when his nightmares set in. One time, he –”

  “Mr. Grace! Stop gossiping like a washer woman and get those men below decks. Help Giorgio make sure they’re fed and watered.”

  The old sailor’s mouth shut at Elias’ rebuke, but he took the censure without rancor.