Shadow of the Corsairs

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  She snatched up her basket and, with her back to him, dabbed at her eyes to clear them.

  “Warehouse fifteen, you said in your letter? I will inspect it anyway. You’re welcome to come with me or not.”

  The sound of his chair legs scraping noisily across the stone floor told Morwena she had her answer and had her way.

  “Come on then,” Nico grumbled. She followed him out of the room. Nico closed the door with a slam, a sign of his continuing displeasure. If only he knew how much like his father he really was…

  The sun kissed the top of the buildings as they made their way down the street toward the warehouses; the smell of sea, brought in on the breeze, cut through the detritus of the street, the smell of ale and sweat carried from the taverns which were as numerous as the warehouses in this part of town.

  “This is it,” said Nico who, to this moment, had led her in sullen silence. She eyed the building. It was solidly built but not new. It seemed in good repair. She touched the handle on the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What do you think I’m doing? I’m taking a look inside. I want to make sure all the windows are intact, that the place isn’t full of rodents.”

  Morwena didn’t bother waiting for an answer. She turned the handle and entered. She was blinded by the light. Two massive doors on the end wall were flung open, flooding the warehouse with sun. While her eyes adjusted to the light, silhouetted men looked like ants crawling over crates and barrels. Then she saw a man at a hand cranked davit, lifting a pallet of goods high in the air, being directed by whistles and yells from a couple of men on a mezzanine.

  Morwena grinned. This stirred her blood – all these men at work bringing in goods to sell. The world was captured and distilled in this place. Spices from the Indies; sugar from Jamaica; coffee from Ethiopia; the highest quality linens and cloth from England; the finest porcelain from China.

  Other people may see a space simply filled with goods, but what Morwena saw was the possibilities. Oh my, the adventure and, just as importantly, the money that trade could bring.

  “Wen?… Wena! Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Nico’s exasperation cut through her musings. Now seeing he had her full attention, he pointed to a corner. About a quarter of the floor space was empty, a small sign was nailed to a wooden post.

  N. Gambino

  “And this is where we’ll begin,” she whispered, mostly to herself.

  “I can’t imagine we’ll ever have need for all this space, but that’s what you wanted.” Nico shrugged. She ignored her brother’s skeptical expression. If only he could see what she could see.

  “Can’t you understand, Nico? This is just the beginning! Our shipment will be here next week and we’ll sell it for a profit! And then we will buy more and sell it for an even greater profit! Then we will have a warehouse of our own – perhaps even two!”

  “I think you’re a dreamer, Wen. Just stick to your little trade on the side. It amuses me to thumb my nose at father. Have your fun while it lasts; put aside a little dowry for yourself. You’re not that old. It’s not too late to find a husband, especially if you have a bit of money of your own.”

  She hadn’t expected outright enthusiasm, but she didn’t expect a slap in the face either.

  “I’ll just thank you to keep doing what I tell you, little brother,” she said, and how she was proud of keeping her voice even. “Do you have a signed copy of our contract?”

  Even Nico knew when he had overstepped the mark. When Morwena mastered her temper long enough to look at him with annoyance instead of hostility, he returned a suitably meek look.

  “Miceli told me to come back Wednesday.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “I’m not staying.”

  But after the first couple of days, it was easier for Jonathan to stop saying the words and just smile and nod each time he was welcomed as a new crew member of the Terpsichore.

  He wasn’t staying. But he didn’t intend to be a passenger either.

  That left him with a dilemma. Of all the skills the crew of the Terpsichore needed, it was a dedicated navigator. It was a role he had been happy to fill over the past few months or so, while he savored his freedom and fully recovered from his captivity.

  He hated the small, nagging feeling that branded him as a coward if he left now.

  Jonathan considered his new crewmates.

  Kit Hardacre was a natural born sailor, educated – but only up to a point. His preference to make up plans as he went along was fraught with danger. The fact that his men followed fiercely after him was still a puzzle.

  The only other properly educated man among the crew was Elias Nash. He seemed sane – a counterbalance to the unhinged Hardacre – but a man who wore the mantle of sailor and soldier uneasily.

  So that left only himself.

  After their close escape from the galiot, Hardacre once again announced his intention to go back to one of the trading ports in Libya to release some of the freed oar-slaves and turn some of the liberated valuables to coin.

  Jonathan plotted their course, using a clean piece of onion skin over the chart to prevent marking the original. He enjoyed using the skills learned navigating the land with Gottleib and adapting them to life at sea.

  In fact, if he didn’t already have a home to return to, a life to lead elsewhere, he would rather enjoy spending life at sea as a navigator.

  I’m not staying.

  The small voice in his head was at its softest when he looked up to see the coastline of some island before him, his eye tracing every inlet, sandbar, and reef, and reconciling their representation on the map. Remarkable.

  The map showed him where he was. Libya was next to Egypt – a ride of a week or so and he could stay with his cousin, Osman, and send word to his family to let them know he, at least, was alive. There in the highlands of his country he could think, reflect, perhaps even become of one of the monks who lived in the monasteries on the islands of the lakes. Thinking, reflecting, in communion with God.

  Perhaps that would be suitable penance for the wanderlust that had consumed his youth and, in the end, destroyed his family.

  “Jonathan? Kit wants to see you.”

  He looked up from his map to Elias. There was an edge to the young man’s voice and a hard set to his mouth that suggested the first officer and captain may have been having words.

  He would have asked more, but Elias was called away.

  Jonathan made his way down the aft steps to the master quarters. The room was in complete blackness, even the small opening in the stern windows had been left closed. The air was different to the musty smell of men living in close quarters. At first, he thought it some kind of perfume, but he didn’t like the way the cloying sweetness of it lingered in the back of his throat.

  For a moment, Jonathan wondered whether the cabin was empty. Then Hardacre spoke.

  “I have some questions for you.” The captain’s voice was flat, lifeless – at complete odds with the almost limitless bounds of energy he’d seen from the man over the past week.

  “What is it you want to know?” he asked.

  “I want to know about the day you were captured.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  There was a pause for a moment and Jonathan wondered whether he had been wordlessly dismissed when Kit spoke again.

  “Then let me talk about it.”

  Jonathan shifted on his feet. The sound of a chair scraped across the planked floor, nudged by Hardacre’s foot. “Take a seat.”

  Every fiber of his being screamed at him to open the door and leave, yet before the thought had finished in his head, Jonathan found himself lowering onto the chair.

  “I read the journal you took from Kaddouri’s compound. You and your German friend were far off the usual slave trading routes. I found that interesting.”

  Belatedly, Jonathan realized it was not perfume that filled his nostrils but smoke, which he could see rising from a narg
ile, its sinuous form silhouetted in the sliver of light that dared peek through the edge of the curtains. He tried to breathe shallowly to prevent more of the hashish lodging in his throat.

  “Why should any of this interest you?”

  “Because everything Kaddouri does interests me. You hunt don’t you?” Without waiting for Jonathan’s answer, Kit continued. “A hunter stalks his prey, knows where it eats, sleeps, and its habits, then appoints a day and time that it’s most vulnerable – then he strikes.”

  “And that’s what you’re doing to Kaddouri?”

  “No, I’m saying that’s what happened to you.”

  Beads of sweat broke out over Jonathan’s forehead, the back of his neck, his arms. It would be easy to blame the stuffy cabin, the hashish, but he knew it was more than that. It was as though Hardacre had articulated a truth that resonated deep in his being.

  “What enemies do you have, Jonathan Afua, son of a Ras, that would send a man like Kaddouri after you?”

  Images flashed before his eyes – their encampment, the arrival of Mellesse and the girls, the night of the raid for which they had been utterly unprepared.

  “What makes you think they were after me? We both know a wealthy white man like Gottleib would earn the slavers a fortune in ransom.”

  Jonathan’s eyes had become used to the gloom and he finally saw Hardacre’s form lying on a bed. The young man raised himself up and swung his legs until he was in a seated position.

  “Intuition. Somebody knew where to look for you. You were thirty miles away from the Nile River. There were five villages much closer. Kaddouri’s men went to a great deal of trouble to track down your party. He wouldn’t have done it without being certain of success; without being paid to do it.”

  Tremors started in Jonathan’s chest and radiated out until his very fingers and toes were thrumming. His head spun. He shot up, the chair behind him tipping over and banging to the floor. He stumbled backwards, only just managing to keep to his feet. The handle of the cabin door collided with his back, bruising it.

  He made his way sightlessly to the stern and vomited over the side, taking heaving breaths that filled his nose and mouth with the tangy brine of the sea, finally ridding his nose of the floral odor from the nargile.

  He ventured to open his eyes and they fell on his knuckles, white from the grip on the rail.

  Jesus, Jesus, Jesus...

  The name became a litany and a prayer of his childhood recalled itself

  A-ba-ta-chin ho-ye

  Ye-met-nor, be-semai

  Ye-met-nor, be-semai

  Men-gis-teh, tem-ta-lin…

  Our Father who art in Heaven

  Hallowed be thy Name

  Hallowed be thy Name

  Thy Kingdom come...

  His wife, his children – slaughtered. On purpose. By someone who hated him enough to destroy everything he had. He had no idea how, but he knew Hardacre was right. Jonathan knew the slave trade. His family owned hundreds to work the coffee plantations. This was different.

  Hamid Addisu...

  Jonathan’s stomach roiled again.

  ***

  “Tell me the story again, ababi!”

  Large, brown eyes looked up at him and he felt his heart melt. Of all his daughters, Debre was the one who knew how to bend him to her will – her sisters would soon master the skill. It was one their mother knew only too well. He would move heaven and earth for his family, to give them the life they deserved.

  Soon, he was surrounded by all of his girls, Debre, Belkis, the middle girl, four years old, and little Hagos, the youngest at two. Her name meant happy and that certainly matched her sunny disposition.

  Mellesse dropped a kiss on his forehead as she passed him before lying down on their sleep mat.

  “I want to hear the story, too.”

  “Yes, Mother wants to hear it, too!” said Belkis.

  Jonathan leaned forward to kiss all of his girls on the forehead and gave his wife a lingering kiss.

  “You have to tell the story now!” Debre insisted.

  And he did, an old favorite about a ferocious lion all the villagers were afraid of.

  Once, a brave man trapped the lion in a pit and the villagers would taunt the animal by throwing rocks at it. They all did this. All except for one little boy. The little boy would sit by himself at the edge of the pit and sing to the lion. He did this day after day until, after a while, the lion would sit calmly and listen to the boy.

  One day, the lion managed to escape the pit climbing up the rocks the villagers had thrown in. Everyone was afraid. One night, they heard a terrible roar. The lion was in the middle of the village! Brave men went out with spears but, unbeknownst to them, the little boy went out, too, armed only with only his blue straw basket. The men found the lion at the entrance to a hut and the people inside were terrified. The lion roared. The men lifted their spears then the boy started singing.

  Something in the song touched everyone. The men lowered their spears and the lion lay down with his head on his paws. And the boy drew closer and closer until he could reach out and touch the lion’s mane...

  “And do you know what happened then?” Jonathan had asked.

  “The lion stood back up and ate him!” announced Debre, leaving her sisters in a fit of giggles.

  That was not how the story went, but that mattered little. Jonathan recalled feeling at that moment he was a man who had attained everything good the world had to offer.

  Jonathan straightened at the rail and turned his back to the sea. He felt the cross around his neck and, at this moment, it felt like a weight, a millstone of memories that would drown him in sea of his own despair.

  I’m not staying...

  But if he was not staying, then where would he go?

  Was there anything to go home to?

  “Land-ho!”

  The deck of the Terpsichore was now a hive of activity. He watched Elias stride across the deck, while other sailors climbed high to adjust the sails to catch the prevailing breeze.

  The crew of the Terpsichore brought the ship to dock amidst the sound of a bustling port – of vendors’ cries and noises of animals sounding foreign after a week at sea.

  One of the port officials made his way up onto the deck and spoke with Elias. Barrels and crates were brought up to the deck, the official making note of the inventory before sitting cross-legged on the floor with his abacus, no doubt calculating the tax due on the imports.

  He saw Elias straighten and fold his arms. The breeze shifted, carrying the conversation.

  “That is how much it is, you must pay it or I will order soldiers to come and confiscate the lot.”

  Jonathan wasn’t sure how much experience the Englishman had with avaricious Arabs and corrupt petty officials. Before he knew what compelled him, he found himself standing alongside Elias. Off to the side, just out of the official’s sight, Mr. Grace sat on a chair and whittled a piece of wood with a small, sharp blade.

  He raised his head on Jonathan’s approach and gave him a nod of acknowledgement. So, he was not the only one interested in listening in.

  “The last time we were here, duty was twenty tugra,” Elias argued.

  “What can I tell you? The gold markets have changed since last time. It’s now fifty tugra.”

  That was outright theft. Jonathan spoke up.

  “Fifteen tugra, and you’ll escape a beating, too.”

  The customs official’s eyes widened at the intrusion before looking Jonathan up and down with contempt. He turned to Elias.

  “You have a trained monkey speak for you, effendi?”

  Before Jonathan could react to the insult, Elias had hauled the much smaller man up by the front of his tunic.

  “Speak to members of my crew with respect, or I will gut you like a fish.”

  Elias shoved the man back into the chest of the now standing Mr. Grace, who with grey, grizzled whiskers and a growl through missing teeth, showed the man a glimpse of his k
nife. Jonathan inwardly chuckled. So much for his concern about Elias being soft.

  “I’m feeling generous,” Elias continued, “twenty-five tugra and a beating, or twenty pieces and no beating – your choice. Decide quickly, before the market price goes up.”

  The bearded man reluctantly nodded and Elias counted out the gold pieces.

  “See our friend makes it safely off the ship. You know how treacherous the gangplank can be.”

  “Aye, that be certain, Mr. Nash.”

  Jonathan waited until the official was out of earshot before he spoke.

  “Would you really have gutted him like a fish?”

  “The crew might call me Preacher, but that doesn’t mean I have to turn the other cheek all the time.” Elias grinned and turned to Giorgio. “Bring the men we rescued up on deck. Tell the crew who are going on shore leave I want to conclude our business here by the end of tomorrow and set sail for Palermo on sunrise the day after.”

  “Aye, Mr. Nash.”

  Only twenty of the men from the galiot remained with them, all of them galley slaves. As they were brought up on the deck, he could see the faces of the men – cautious, distrustful faces, clearly men who were uncertain what future beheld them.

  Jonathan imagined his face once held the same expression.

  “We have a contact with the priests at St. Antoninus, the Coptic church here in Benghazi. They’ll take in these men to see if they can find out where their families live and try to reunite them.”

  “And if they can’t?” Jonathan asked.

  “Then they’ll see what skills they have and find employment. At least they’ll be free.”

  “For the time being.”

  “Well, the rest is in God’s hands, not mine.”

  Jonathan watched Giorgio give the galley slaves the same message, this time in Arabic. After a moment, he found himself under Elias’ scrutiny.

  “Did Kit speak to you? Are you going to leave with these men?”

  I’m not staying...

  He watched as the last of the oarsmen disembarked.

  “I have a cousin in Egypt who exports our family’s green coffee beans.” Even as he said the words, the thought of reuniting with his cousin seemed unappealing. Perhaps, it was pride. A man who once had everything – wealth, influence through his family connection to the royal family, would now be going back as little more than a beggar, having to tell the story over and over of the death of his wife and children.