Shadow of the Corsairs

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  She felt him regard her for a moment – my, he was tall – halting before he fell back into step.

  They walked in silence a few yards. Neither, it would appear, was comfortable.

  “Where did –”

  “What line –”

  They spoke over the top of one another and laughed.

  “Ladies first,” he said.

  She inclined her head in acknowledgement.

  “When did the Terpsichore come in?” he asked, uncertain of her question. It was close enough. She nodded once more. “We came in first light this morning,” he said. then hesitated. “And it wasn’t by accident that I was around the warehouses. We’re… that is the captain, Kit Hardacre – your pirate – might be looking for a warehouse to use.”

  “What’s your trade?”

  There was silence once more. She felt a frission of disappointment – was her rescuer someone else who didn’t think commerce was a suitable subject for a woman to discuss?

  “I don’t exactly know...”

  That wasn’t the answer she expected. She halted and the man beside her did also. She leaned in, although there was no one in the street who could overhear them.

  “Contraband?” she asked nonchalantly.

  His smile vanished and there was a firmness to the jaw that warned against asking more questions. But that never stopped her before.

  “Are you spies?” she asked, sotto voce, not hiding her interest. “English? Or French?”

  A hand shot out and took her arm, steering her around a street vendor and his cart.

  “Forget I said anything. As far as I know, the Terpsichore is a respectable trading vessel.”

  “As far as you know? I thought you were a member of the crew?”

  “Temporarily,” he said. “I’m on my way home. But that’s enough of me. I think I’ve earned the right to hear your story.”

  A dozen more questions lined up behind her lips, but Morwena swallowed them down at his look. When he smiled, he had a magnetism that almost compelled you to smile with him. Now he wore a serious expression, and Morwena caught a glimpse of something else. Something dangerous. He was a man you’d underestimate at your peril.

  “I run my father’s iron goods store, except he doesn’t quite know that,” she admitted. “I have two brothers and both have fallen out with my father. You see, his health has not been good and…” She shook her head. This man was not interested in hearing her life story. He was only interested in why he had to intervene in what must have sounded like a fight between a fishwife and her husband. She drew a deep breath.

  “I was selling farming implements to the English who come to purchase the vineyards in Marsala. But without access to the goods in that warehouse, my client has demanded his money back. I’m ruined.”

  Jonathan nodded his understanding. “What if I could broker a sale?”

  She felt herself frown. “You’re a stranger here in Palermo, you told me that yourself. Who do you know who is willing to buy nearly three hundred ducats worth of farm equipment? Certainly not a sailor.”

  His smile returned. “I think I know someone.”

  “I’m not going to take anyone’s charity. I’ll replace the money myself somehow.” She pulled her pride around her like a shawl and straightened her shoulders but, even in her own mind, her words sounded pathetic.

  They certainly didn’t fool her escort. He let out a long sigh as though she had reached the end of his patience.

  “Miss Gambino, I’m not talking about charity. I’m talking about business.”

  Morwena frowned; that was a low blow. This man she had known for only an hour had appealed to the one thing she could not resist – a good trade.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Afua, you’re a sailor. How –”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “I hardly know you.”

  “Trust me, Miss Gambino – or, if you prefer, call it the price I’m asking for coming to your aid this afternoon. All it will cost you is your time at a meeting with the officers on the Terpsichore.”

  Morwena backed away from the man. She felt safe enough in the city she was raised, but she was no fool. Women had been abducted and worse for being trustingly naïve.

  “Come on board a ship with you? You must think I’m stupid.” She kept walking.

  He caught up with her. “Then you name the day and the place and we’ll come to you.”

  They stopped at the corner at the via Vittorio Immanuel.

  “The Ballaro markets the day after tomorrow,” she said. “My shop is number seven, it’s next to the stationer’s.”

  “I know.”

  Morwena felt foolish the moment she’d said it. Of course, he’d been to her shop several times. She began to walk away.

  “And before you go, Miss Gambino…”

  Morwena stopped and looked back at him. He held a folded slip of paper in his hand.

  “An order. Let us know anything you need time to get in. I’ll see you with payment, the day after tomorrow. ”

  ***

  Jonathan stepped back into the shadows and watched the young woman melt into the crowds. Then he turned his attention to the other corner. There, the figure that had been trailing them, had stepped out into the sunlight.

  No, he hadn’t been mistaken. He had the sense he and Miss Gambino had been followed the moment they had left the warehouse. The follower was tall, about his own height, but leaner in build, white-skinned, but black hair, exactly like Morwena Gambino.

  Was this her brother? Or someone else?

  Suddenly, the afternoon didn’t seem aimless at all. Jonathan paid a street vendor for something he learned was sfincione, a spongy bread dressed with tomato, onion and caciocavallo cheese, then followed the man who had followed them.

  It was interesting that the man had waited until Miss Gambino had disappeared into the crowd before trailing after her. That suggested he knew where she was likely to be going.

  Despite the caution he displayed earlier, the man hadn’t counted on the chance he himself might be followed. Jonathan strolled casually, finishing his meal, but keeping his quarry in sight. It would be easy to lose ones way in the narrow alleys, streets, and piazzas, but Jonathan made sure he kept an eye on the sun and the cast of the shadows as they fell from the concentration of three-story buildings with small balconies adorned with drying washing.

  A sign attached to the front of one building pointed the way to via Ballaro and the man had not slowed a beat. Jonathan matched his pace with the man he stalked. And he came to a near stop as one of the little streets, barely wide enough for a horse and cart, opened out into a small square. Ahead, two small streets split and ran alongside a narrow terrace dwelling.

  Jonathan lingered just outside the square and touched the sun-warmed sandstone. Inside, he heard the sound of young voices in song. A quick look around the corner revealed he was by a narrow-fronted church – with one smaller door, instead of the traditional double fronted.

  His quarry came to a complete halt and slowly looked about him. Jonathan swiftly and quietly rounded the corner and quickly ascended the half-dozen steps into the church, the cool interior a pleasant contrast to the baking hot piazza.

  Looking back out, Jonathan saw the stranger’s features clearly in full sunlight. A cruel turn to his lip gave the young man an air of menace and he entered a building with a peeling green door. Jonathan waited to see if the man made an appearance in any of the three-story windows, but he did not.

  Whoever he was, whatever his plans, he was convinced it meant no good for Morwena Gambino.

  Inside the church, a solo voice sang,

  Vinni la primavera

  li mennuli sù n'ciuri

  Lu focu di l'ammuri

  lu cori m'addurmò.

  Spring has come

  almond trees are in blossom

  the fire of love

  took over my heart

  The simple song and melody revealed a young woman’s lament at seeing
her friends marry, while she is beautiful, but alone, weighed by the responsibilities to her family.

  He listened to the full song, until he was certain the man he trailed would not make a reappearance. Jonathan left the piazza and went back to the main street beyond, emerging into the throngs of people going about their business.

  The sky had become a deep violet twilight by the time he returned to the Terpsichore. It looked nearly deserted on deck; the sound of someone playing a guitar, idly picking out a tune.

  “Welcome back aboard, I wasn’t sure I’d see you until morning.”

  “I needed somewhere to sleep.”

  Elias chuckled, putting down his guitar and getting to his feet.

  “Are you here on your own?”

  The Englishman shook his head. “Kit’s still sleeping it off.”

  “Sleeping off what?”

  Elias closed this mouth. In the lamplight, Jonathan saw him work his jaw. He seemed to always do that when faced with an awkward question.

  “He takes opiates. Laudanum mainly. He uses it to help dull the memories of his captivity. He was beginning to use it less, and I prayed it was the beginning of his break from it. But ever since our raid, he’s been obsessed with Kaddouri.”

  Jonathan recalled the strange conversation he’d had with Hardacre. “Will he do it?”

  Elias let out a long sigh, “If he says he will, he will. I’ve never known anyone like him. I don’t know how to describe it. He fights the battles in his head and ends up in a sort of trance. You never know whether he sleeps or dreams. By the time he’s done, he returns with an audacious plan, so brilliantly plotted out. The crew loves him for it. I’ve never known such a loyal group of men.”

  “And you?”

  Elias picked up his guitar once more. “I just keep praying for them all.”

  The two men sat in companionable silence as the violet sky turned black. When Elias learned he could play the violin, he fetched a fiddle and they entertained themselves with musical duels. Somewhere around midnight, Elias was about to launch into another when he cocked his ear and listened for a moment.

  Jonathan heard it, too, the scrape of heavy furniture and a faint voice behind it. Then came a crash and the sound of broken glass. Elias put down his guitar and took off at a run toward the aft stairs.

  What in heaven’s name?

  He listened to the sound of what appeared to be a struggle below decks and was about to dismiss it when he heard the shouts. He set down his own instrument and ventured closer to the hatch. The words were unintelligible, but unmistakably violent.

  Jonathan was about to turn away. It was obvious Elias had plenty of practice dealing with his captain’s mania without his help.

  “Kit! Kit! It’s me!” Elias’ words carried a measure of panic. The sounds of thrashing about continued.

  Perhaps Elias needed help.

  Jonathan cautiously descended. The master cabin door was ajar and the normally neat room showed signs of the violent struggle. Further inside, he heard the rough, harsh pants of two men locked in a physical struggle.

  The cabin was dark, and the light of a rising moon through the stern window did little more than differentiate between shades of blackness. It was impossible to discern between the two men wrestling on the floor.

  The lantern in the wall sconce was alight but the wick low. Jonathan raised the flame, bathing the room in a soft glow. He turned back, catching a glint of a blade lit by the rising moon.

  He called Hardacre’s name and the captain did not react.

  Hardacre was panting hard, muttering nonsense – a jumble of words and syllables in more than one language.

  “For the love of God, Kit. It’s me!”

  Elias was on the floor, Hardacre struggling above him. The first officer struggled to turn himself onto his back and managed to knock away the hand with the knife. But it was only a temporary reprieve.

  The captain seized Elias by the throat with his empty hand. Jonathan lunged forward and grabbed Hardacre under the arms and pulled. Despite being more powerfully built than the Englishman, he struggled to haul him off his felled first officer whose temple bore a sizeable lump and a cut.

  Hardacre’s demons seemed to give him the strength of five men. His face was red and he huffed over and over again as Jonathan had once seen two young bull elephants do before a clash of tusks. Finally, he managed to pull Hardacre upright. Elias grasped the man’s right wrist until the knife clattered from his hand to the floor. Elias kicked it away, then looked up. Jonathan read the relief and thanks on his face.

  “Have you got a grip on him?” he asked.

  Jonathan nodded. He had Hardacre in a bear hug from behind. The man still struggled, but nowhere near as violently as before. Elias retrieved a box from the floor and opened it; there were various vials and syringes within. He pulled out one vial and tossed the box on the bed. He unplugged the cork stopper and waved the small bottle under Kit’s nose. Jonathan nearly reeled at its pungency as it reached him, too, and he breathed shallowly through his mouth until the vile odor had gone.

  Whatever it was, it seemed to settle the captain. His breathing returned to something like normal and, when he raised his hand, it was to tap Jonathan’s arm as if in surrender.

  Elias nodded, and Jonathan released Hardacre. The captain seemed to sag a moment before gaining his feet. Then he stumbled out of the cabin, up the aft stairs, and out onto the deck where he plunged his head into the open rainwater butt.

  When he raised his head again, he looked almost like his normal self but for the dark shadows under his eyes and his soaked wet hair dripping on his disheveled shirt. He looked about.

  “Where are we?”

  “Palermo.”

  “Oh...” After a pause, he added, “How long was I gone?”

  “Three days.”

  Hardacre seemed to take a closer look at his first officer then, including the swelling by his left eye.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  “You did.” Elias hesitated as though he was about to say more, but he simply walked away, trying to hide an uneven gait from what Jonathan suspected was a twisted ankle.

  Jonathan still felt a surge through his veins from the fight, the cool midnight air doing nothing to temper it. Under the single yellow lamp, he watched Hardacre as Elias limped away. The captain turned and looked Jonathan up and down appraising, apparently, for signs of similar injuries. Jonathan shook his head and received a sheepish smile of apology in return.

  No, not good enough.

  Elias Nash was too soft, too protective of his captain to call the man out on his behavior.

  “You nearly killed him.” He did not attempt to soften the accusation.

  Sobriety returned to Hardacre’s features, but it wasn’t enough to quell Jonathan’s anger.

  “I know you think you have a reason to act the way you do, but if you don’t stop, you will actually kill people who care about you. You may have no regard for your own life but for God’s sake man, give a thought to someone else for a change!”

  Hardacre turned his back. “I never stop thinking about them,” he said, his voice soft, little more than a whisper.

  “Who?”

  “The slaves… I hear the cries of them, they want to be free. They want justice. The only time they leave me alone is when I plan for their vengeance.”

  “What good will you be to them if you and all the men who follow you are dead?”

  Hardacre spun back to face him once more. Even in the moonlight, his face, which had a deathly pallor before, now took on color.

  “Please, stop your sermons. I get enough of it from Elias,” he said, shaking his head, his voice stronger. “Do you think I don’t care? Do you think these men would follow me if they believed that I would get them all killed? I’m not going to justify who I am and what I do to you – especially if you’re not going to stay.”

  A small grin flitted across Hardacre’s mouth suddenly. Jonathan felt
prickles go up the nape of his neck, as though the captain had gleaned something that only he could see.

  “You are staying!”

  Jonathan straightened. “Only for a short time.”

  Hardacre laughed heartily, as though the darkness which had consumed him had never happened.

  “You keep telling yourself that, my friend – whatever justification you need. But you know I’ll deal with Kaddouri and you know I’m your best chance to uncover the reason why you were targeted – and who was responsible for murdering your wife and children.”

  Jonathan had to acknowledge the truth at least to himself – the voices in his mind, their insistent demand for justice, sounded exactly like Mellesse and their daughters.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Morwena was a demigelle, one of eight, but she knew she didn’t deserve the honor despite being Cettina’s oldest and dearest friend.

  She stood in her new gown, a traditional full red skirt trimmed at the hem in multi-colored ribbon, a round-necked blouse in white with flowers embroidered about the neck with bright silks over which a corset in black cinched in her waist.

  She’d been appointed the job to see Cettina’s sisters and cousins stayed clean in their matching costumes and she’d done so gladly. But now the wedding was over and the feasting was about to begin. She couldn’t help the stab on envy to see her friend as a bride sitting next to Marcu, looking as handsome as she had ever seen him.

  Today, these childhood sweethearts started their new life together, as man and wife. How fortunate they were. Their parents had the foresight to arrange the match for them when they were both six and Cettina and Marcu knew each other as well as they knew themselves.

  Carmelo caught her eye and smiled as he hunched over to dance with one of Cettina’s little cousins. Morwena returned the smile as she wiped the face of one of the other children.

  She wished she could be enjoying herself as much as everyone else, but fear of facing her father over the discrepancy in the books hung over her head like a storm cloud. Right now, he was in a jovial mood, celebrating with his contemporaries, the venerable old men of their neighborhood clustered around the table. Everyone knew everyone here – joyous news was celebrated, mourning was shared, scandals were gossiped about and tut-tutted behind hands.