Elias clambered over the side of the ship and down to a row boat. Jonathan followed and, without thinking, took his place at the oars as two other men did. It felt good to do something physical. For too long, he’d felt like a caged leopard.
So, by the time they’d dragged the lighter up onto the beach, Jonathan felt immeasurably better. He shouldered a large, thickly-woven basket onto his shoulder. He had no idea what was in it, but followed the other men up to a rectangular building, its walls ancient but solid. Inside, he could see the roof was made of mismatched timber, some weathered silver by the sea and air. Others seemed so fresh that he could smell the tannin from the oak. The main joist that ran along the building’s length had clearly once been a mast.
Jonathan dropped his burden where the others were and went back down to the shore where a third lighter was unloading its cargo. He picked up a crate and followed the men trailing single file like ants back up the hill. He continued to look around as he did so.
Looking beyond the rocks, he saw the soil here appeared quite good. He may not be a farmer, but the rest of his family was. They grew coffee and lived by the turn of the seasons. Cousin Osman had set up a successful business at one of the trading ports.
At one time, this would have been a self-sufficient place, but it had clearly been abandoned many years ago. The smaller buildings, which Jonathan assumed would have been for servants, were dwarfed by a larger structure, just beneath the headland itself.
This place could support thirty people, even fifty, if the inhabitants fished as well as farmed, he thought.
As he reached the storehouse, he saw Elias looking around with the same thoughtful expression on his face.
“What will happen to the men we took on board?” he asked. “The slaves? If Hardacre sends them back, they will only be enslaved again. Where can they go where they’ll be safe?”
Elias bent down to pick up a rock. He rolled it in his fingers a moment and pitched it far. “They need a sanctuary,” he said. “They could make a home here.”
“It needs a lot of work,” Jonathan countered.
“If they did the work themselves, then the fruits of their labors would be theirs. ‘To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill...’”
It seemed strange to Jonathan to hear the words of his ancestor Solomon come from the mouth of this Englishman.
Elias continued. “Perhaps you could help me persuade Kit this would be a much better place if it was inhabited, to let some of these men rebuild their lives.”
“Better make your argument quick. I want to ask him to take me to Cairo or, if he won’t, then to take me to someone who will. I have a home I want to go back to. I have a family to mourn.”
Jonathan wasn’t sure whether he liked the sympathetic look the man gave him.
The sun was already low in the sky by the time all of the plunder had been unloaded. The ship was turned around and made the treacherous passing through the narrow mouth of the lagoon out into the sea.
“Do you trust this Sharrouf?”
Jonathan folded his arms and waited for Hardacre to raise his head from the mapping table where the man had been furiously sketching something that looked like plans for a ship.
“I don't trust anyone I don’t know,” Hardacre replied, concentrating on his scribbling.
“So, why ask my opinion?”
Hardacre put his pencil down and looked up at last. “Because, of everyone on this ship, you and I are the ones who know Kaddouri best.”
Jonathan considered Hardacre's answer – and the deceptively simple proposal that went before it. Destroy Kaddouri's enterprise, go after his fleet, go after the slavers with no more mercy than they showed their prisoners.
And they would do so on the basis of information from the wrecked galiot’s captain. Ahmed Sharrouf had, apparently willingly, told Hardacre all about his master – his stronghold, the number of his ships, even his plans for raiding parties.
The part of Jonathan which cried out for revenge for Mellesse quickened.
“It would be dangerous,” he started.
Hardacre gave him a slow grin. “Indeed, it would.”
“There is no guarantee Sharrouf is telling the truth.”
“Indeed, you're right,” came the level reply.
“You could be sailing into a trap and condemning your crew to death – or worse.”
The grin grew larger and a manic gleam lit the young man's eyes.
“So, are you in?”
Jonathan took a step back, feeling as though he'd been hypnotized by a cobra but just managed to shake off its spell.
“No,” he said emphatically. “I want to go home.”
Hardacre dismissed him with a shrug of the shoulders. “Suit yourself.” He picked up his pencil and returned to his plans.
Jonathan hesitated in the doorway of the master cabin and looked back.
“Hardacre...” The man’s face was unreadable with a length of blond hair obscuring his features. “Kit...” At that, the Englishman looked up. “Don’t be in such a hurry to get yourself killed. You have a good crew. You could make a respectable living through trade, I could...”
He wasn’t sure what caused him to pause. As far as Hardacre was concerned he was just an African, one of many souls plundered for slavery; he didn’t care who he was. In fact, it didn’t matter who he was. Was. His wealth and status had been stripped from him. The return of the cross he wore around his neck was the first time in the better part of a year he felt even remotely like the man he had been before. And with the return of the cross came the memory of Mellesse.
The sooner he could return home and put this nightmare behind him the better.
“You were saying?”
Jonathan shook his head to clear it.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Without considering what prompted him to do so, he crossed back to the table and held out his hand. Hardacre’s eyes left his and stared at the outstretched hand. Even after a moment or two, he did not take it. Jonathan felt his lip curl in disgust.
“Is there something wrong with shaking my hand, Captain?”
Hardacre didn’t miss the venomous tone in his words. His eyes met Jonathan’s and he slowly rose to his feet. Tension crackled between them.
“There is if you’re just walking away from this, Mr. Afua. Just giving up on justice for your wife and daughters?”
Jonathan squared his shoulders. Hardacre’s words felt like a brand plunged against his chest.
How dare he...
Hardacre had read the journal he had taken from Bagrada. How? Then Jonathan remembered Elias saying Hardacre himself had been ten years a slave. He would have eventually been groomed to become a white eunuch. Off course he would have learned to read and write Arabic.
Still, Hardacre had no right to invoke their memory. Jonathan felt his body tense, ready for a fight to release the violence, exorcise the demons. The man before him was slightly built, no match for him should they come to blows.
But the cross around his neck warned him to turn the other cheek and walk away.
Then Hardacre spoke.
“You’re not a coward, are you?”
He launched himself across the table. Hardacre, the insane bastard, laughed as he was knocked to the floor and Jonathan scrambled atop him. He still laughed as Jonathan drew back his fist to break the nose on that pretty face. Hardacre turned slightly away at the last moment. Jonathan’s first blow became just a glancing swipe across Hardacre’s cheekbone, and it was the only one he landed.
The movement unbalanced Jonathan and he found his own weight being used against him. His head clipped the table as he was thrown backwards and he only just managed to stop himself landing flat on his back. Meanwhile, Hardacre was back on his feet like the part cat he appeared to be.
And this time, it was he who extended
a hand.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Afua. Good to have you on my crew.”
CHAPTER NINE
April 1811
“Franco has gone mad.”
“Did you say something, Papa?” Morwena raised her eyes from her private ledger and, on hearing her father’s footsteps, nervously watched the ink drying on her entry. She closed the book the moment he reached the top of the stairs.
She stood and smoothed down her lilac-trimmed skirt and dropped the little journal on the desk, the catch on a leather strap open. There it was, just an ordinary diary again.
Hastening from her room, she nearly bumped into her father whose arms were laden with a crate full of produce.
“Where did all this come from?”
“Look on top, there’s a note.”
In gratitude for all your custom
“For thirty years I imported my goods through Franco and never once has he ever done more than send a bill and increase his prices. He’s gone soft in the head.”
Morwena drew in a deep breath but managed to plaster a smile on her face. She knew the exact reason for Franco’s largesse. In her father’s name, Morwena had placed the largest order of iron goods they had ever made, and the merchandise would be delivered into the warehouse Nico had rented.
“Well, perhaps Franco has grown kinder in his old age.”
“Humph, he’s probably gouging us twice as much for his shoddy goods. I think I’ll have a word with him,” he said, moving past her.
“No, Papa!”
Thomasso looked as startled as she did. He glanced backwards and moved into the kitchen where the crate landed on the table with a thud.
Think quickly! Papa cannot know of her trading.
“I mean, it would be ungracious to not accept his gift,” she answered quickly as she rummaged through the box. She triumphantly held up an aubergine. “Look, fresh eggplant! How about I make your favorite dish?”
Morwena took the gamble that talk of food would work best to distract her father when he was in a mood. Thomasso stared at her for a moment and she wondered whether he could see through her deception. She held her breath.
“You will make fresh pasta?”
Morwena released her breath and smiled. “Of course, Papa.”
After supper, Thomasso went out to the tavern on the corner to join some friends and play draughts. Morwena opened as many windows as she could, encouraging as much breeze through as possible.
Long lines of purple shadows cut though what remained of the lingering afternoon sun. From over the rooftops, she could hear the sound of an accordion being played by the old man in the street across the back, and the squeals of children making the most of the daylight to play. Down the road, a woman raised her voice, her argument indistinct but, after a moment, punctuated with a slam of a door.
Perhaps she should go out. Perhaps Cettina… no, she was away visiting relatives in Catalana, being made a fuss over ahead of her wedding next month. If Nico and Pietro were here, they could have taken on the running of the shop and she could go with her girlhood friend and join in with making the arrangements.
Stop! Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Life is what it is.
She turned away from the window that faced the via Ballaro, just as a movement caught her eye.
There was someone looking up at her!
Tall with black hair. Nico? He’d come home? She leaned out further but whoever it was had stepped back and was obscured by the awning of the stationer’s next door.
She flew down the stairs and flung open the door.
“Nico!”
The street was nearly deserted, but several people turned and glanced her way as she yelled her younger brother’s name. She looked past the stationer’s store and could not see him. But along near the tobacconist’s she caught a glimpse of broad shoulders in the remaining daylight as he crossed by an alley.
The idiot, why didn’t he stop? Why didn’t he throw pebbles in the window like Pietro did to wake her up and get her to open the window to sneak in – the way he did when he when he was twelve and she was six.
Morwena considered yelling again, but the hastening figure had just turned a corner. Perhaps she should run after him, but she would lose precious seconds finding the key and locking the door…
No, she would see Nico tomorrow with some of Franco’s bounty – he’d earned it, and she really did need to speak to him about his search for the warehouse. Yesterday, she’d gotten confirmation her order would be arriving on the next ship.
The sun dropped further to the horizon and the first of the stars of the evening sky made their entrance. The off-key whistling of the lamp lighter doing his rounds brought her back to the present, and the shadows had become total. The comforting, familiar features of her little world in Ballaro Street were as familiar to her as her own room.
She approached the door, shades of charcoal against black, already thinking about the location of the flint and striker in the center drawer of the little table just inside. She would have time to update her private business journal before Papa came home and…
A hand grabbed her elbow.
She suppressed a scream and tore her arm away. Then she came face to face with a young boy she recognized who lived just around the corner.
“Angelo, what are you doing out?”
“I ran as fast as I could!” said the six year old. “Nico asked me to give you this. He said you’d give me some pastries.”
Morwena accepted the envelope and glanced at it before seeing the wide, expectant eyes of the child.
“It’s too late tonight. Your mama will be looking for you. Come by tomorrow.”
The child looked at her skeptically.
“Cross my heart, I promise,” she added dutifully. Apparently that was enough, that and the sound of Angelo’s name being called from the next street. The child took off at a run.
Morwena shook her head and smiled, lighting the wick on the hall lamp, then a taper to light a couple of lamps for her father. The last lamp she took to her bedroom, eager to read Nico’s note – perhaps it would also have an explanation for his odd behavior. It did not. Instead, it was straight to the point.
Wena,
I have leased warehouse space for us. It is one hundred square feet at Warehouse 15. You will want to inspect it I know, but please do not go there alone. It is not the nicest of districts. No place for my sister.
Come and see me tomorrow, bring some more food, perhaps some cuccidiati which maman used to make?
Nico
“I have to go out, Papa,” yelled Morwena.
“Yes, yes, go – leave your poor, old father here doing all the work. Ungrateful child!”
Oh, dear. Father was going to have one of his bad days. She glanced about the kitchen to be sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She placed a cloth over the top of her basket and skipped down the stairs, two at a time. She was running late if she was to meet with Nico. He would want to eat and she was too excited to eat. She wanted to see the warehouse and do so in good daylight.
“Morwena!”
The sound of her father so close made her jump.
“What’s gotten into you?”
The tension of the past few days bubbled to the surface and, as much as she hated it, she burst into tears.
The lines around her father’s mouth softened while she stood there looking wide-eyed and tearful. He looked down at the basket at her elbow.
“It is a beau you’re meeting with?” he asked, his voice part grave, part teasing. She felt her eyes widen even more, if possible.
At that, Thomasso burst out laughing.
“I know when you are lying to me, little one, and your eyes tell me the truth – Carmelo and Veru’s engagement party is it not?”
In her nervous state, she struggled to remember who Carmelo was. But her father had given her an opportunity to lessen her burden of sin once more by agreeing to his misapprehension rather than lying outright.
“I
’ll be home to make dinner, Papa, and I’ll have the books done by morning,” she said, her voice nearly hoarse with emotions barely under control.
This time, her father was smiling benignly, harmless as a lamb.
“Go on then, I’ll manage, even though I should have two grown sons to help me run my business.”
It was just at the tip of Morwena’s tongue to say all he had to do was say the word and he could have one son to help, if only he was not so prideful as to refuse to offer the hand of reconciliation. But she kept her thoughts to herself as she kissed her father on the cheek.
“I’ll be back, Papa.”
***
“You’re late. I didn’t think you were ever coming.” When Nico complained, he sounded like a six-year-old child again. Even though Morwena was only older by a couple of years, he always seemed to complain to her, as though she was his mother.
“I had to stop to see Cettina. She’s getting married in a couple of days.”
Nico sobered as though finally remembering he was a man and not a youth.
“I heard about Carmelo and Veru as well. I’m sorry. I never thought to ask you about how you felt. He was quite sweet on you once upon a time.”
Morwena shook her head. “I cannot regret what I did not have. Perhaps if Mama had not died, if you and Pietro hadn’t fallen out with Papa, then perhaps Carmelo and I might have… but there’s no life to live in the shadows of what might have been, is there?”
Nico shrugged and reached for another pastry. She slapped the back of his hand.
“No more until you’ve shown me the warehouse.”
Her brother looked at her as though she was mad.
“Business. Woman. Two words that are unnatural together,” Nico grumbled. She looked at him sharply.
“Those words have paid for your lodgings and your food, haven’t they? They’ve paid for your leisure and no doubt for trips to the taverns and the brothels.”
He flushed red. “What does a well brought-up young woman know about such things? Papa would beat you senseless for talking like that – and if Mama were here –”
The young man was wise enough to shut his mouth in the face of Morwena’s thunderous look. “Don’t you dare, Nico! Don’t you dare!”
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