Shadow of the Corsairs

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  He made his way through the lower deck to a cabin he shared with Elias – a recognition that he was an officer on the Terpsichore although he had no memory of ever accepting the commission. At the foot of his bed was a brand new footlocker and inside it was a selection of shirts, breeches, jackets, and coats he had a vague recollection of being measured for.

  He dropped the letter on top of the footlocker. He would borrow Kit or Elias’s pen and ink. On his return he would ask Morwena to order him a writing box.

  The pounding of footsteps above and below him, the banging and dragging of cargo being placed into the hold, had started to give him a headache.

  What was being stored in the hold was another reason why he was being evasive with Morwena.

  Below his feet was enough gunpowder, cannon shot, and rockets to blow them to Kingdom Come and, in another six weeks, there was another clandestine shipment expected to arrive.

  This trip was to take them back to Catallus, where that rocky outcrop of ancient ruins was to become some kind of habitable fortification. But as to how much of this weaponry was to be stored there, he was not privy. At this stage, Hardacre was keeping the plans to himself. He suspected some of it was for trading for information. Weapons were desirable currency. It also brought them a day’s sailing closer to the Tunisian coast.

  By the time Jonathan emerged on deck, the stevedores were back on the wharf and the gangplank had just been lifted. He quickly scanned across the dock, looking for the red dress Morwena wore. He did not see it. He should have not expected to see it, but he still couldn’t help the small amount of disappointment he felt.

  Both Hardacre and Elias were at the helm

  “Plot a course to Catallus, Mr. Afua. Best to keep your mind on your work instead of pining after your lady.”

  “Leave him alone, Kit,” Elias chided.” One of these days, you’re going to find yourself moving heaven and earth for a lady love.”

  “No flesh and blood woman can possibly compare to the muse of the dance, right men?” Kit announced, tapping out a rhythm on deck of the Terpsichore with his feet to prove his point.

  “Right you are, Captain!” called out Gus.

  “You’re a cynic, Captain Hardacre!” Elias tossed back.

  “My mistress is the sea – she may be a capricious lover, but she will never play me false!”

  “’Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil. She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life. She is like the merchants' ships; she bringeth her food from afar.’…”

  “Enough, Preacher. Save the sermon for Sunday.”

  Elias grinned at Hardacre, not looking in the least bit apologetic. Jonathan shook his head in mock exasperation. He turned his focus to the charts before him and then examined the weather logs. Fair sailing. If only it was as easy to simply consult a chart and know the course of one’s own life.

  The crewmen of the Terpsichore concentrated on their jobs as the ship left harbor and entered into the crowded sea lanes between the island of Sicily and the Italian peninsula. The ship wore the flag of the Kingdom of Two Naples and not the English standard. The British Navy controlled the waters of the Tyrrhenian and Ionian Seas, but the land on the other side was another thing entirely.

  Hardacre was actually quite a good teacher and, through him, Jonathan quickly learned the silhouettes of the ships that plied the waters and which designs were likely to belong to which nations.

  “But don’t be fooled,’ Hardacre warned. “Barbary Coast nations also use captured European ships, so often their prey have no idea who they are facing until they’re about to be boarded.”

  They sailed against the sun, the sea before them calm, the shape of distant mountains illuminated for a brief while as the orb descended into the western horizon. Jonathan thought about the letter he had received and decided he’d be best served to read it by daylight. He handed the wheel to Elias and went down to retrieve it.

  Back on the deck, the daylight had softened.

  Dearest Tewodros,

  Your letter came to me like a miracle.

  As soon as I received it, I wrote one of my own directly to your brother before I penned this one to you. Your mother is in frail health and has been since the day we learned of your capture.

  I know there is more to your escape than you can share in your letter but it seems nothing less than divine intervention itself.

  We had heard of the raid on the camp from one of the slaves and found the bodies of those slaughtered. The scene was beyond imagining to describe. So many dead that we assumed that you were among those whose remains could not be identified.

  Your daughters have been buried in the consecrated church grounds near the family estate. They were, of course, too young to have died, too young to have expressed their wishes about where they were to be buried, so the family decided they should be interred at the church where you had expressed your wish to be buried.

  Mellesse, as you know, wanted to be buried at the monastery on the lake at Tana. We fulfilled her wishes with all due ceremony. We also held a day of remembrance to your memory and prayed for the peaceful journey of your soul into the life hereafter. Now, we have the miracle that you live.

  As you asked in your letter, I have your brother making inquiries after Hamid Addisu but I do know he is dead. Executed, although I do not yet know the reason why.

  You brother asks me to give you every assistance and it is my joy to do so. I will make arrangements to travel to Sicily. You can accompany me back to Cairo and I can arrange your passage back to Gondar.

  Write to me again soonest, I still cannot believe the news.

  In the memory of your father and my father, who are brothers, I wish you Godspeed and blessings,

  Osman

  Jonathan folded the letter carefully and slipped it inside his jacket, conscious of the disappointment that squeezed his chest. He hadn’t realized how much he’d pinned his hopes on a confrontation with Addisu. Knowing why the man would betray him and his family would help him understand. Some reason would be better than none, no matter how evil or depraved. The thought that it was some pitiless, random happenstance made him sick to his stomach.

  It had been a hope he’d clung to for months. Now that had been taken away from him also.

  He was adrift. All of the things that anchored him to this world were gone – father and husband, nobleman and explorer – everything he believed about himself erased.

  What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world, but loses his soul…

  Since he had lost his whole world, did that mean there was a chance to find his soul? Or was that gone, too?

  Who was responsible? Who could be made responsible?

  The only name that came to mind now was Kaddouri. He and his forces raided their camp. He was responsible for the murder of his family. He would be the one who would pay.

  Jonathan became aware of Hardacre’s scrutiny after he lost his temper and shoved a sailor who had unwittingly blocked his path. He grunted something at the man which might be construed as an apology and continued his work. He made his way into the shroud and climbed upward to adjust a piece of mizzenmast rigging. Up here, the wind struck his face and the roll of the ship was more acute. From below, instructions were shouted and the ship moved on command as though it was a living thing.

  There was no need for him to remain up here but, with the mood he was in, it was best that he keep out of the way. Doing something useful was preferable to the alternative – and that was to throw himself overboard, wait for death to claim him, and for St. Peter to reunite him with his family.

  “So you’re staying?”

  Jonathan started and retained enough presence of mind to secure his feet in the footropes and firm his grip on the one of the braces.

  Hardacre seemed to have magically appeared like a djinn, sitting there on one of the cross trees, holdin
g the stay as the Terpsichore dipped through a small chop.

  “It would help if you talked in full sentences, so I have some idea what you’re on about,” said Jonathan.

  Hardacre shrugged. “I didn’t because I don’t need to. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve been struggling with making up your mind about staying on the crew from the day we met. When that letter arrived for you, I knew you would make your final decision. You’ve been stomping around like a bear with a sore head ever since you read it. That’s not the attitude of a man who’s had good news. So?”

  “So, what?”

  “Nah, you’re not going to make me ask the question.”

  Jonathan edged his way across to the mast, the heat of his anger hampering his movements. But it was the look of mirth on Hardacre’s face which propelled him.

  Dikala. Bastard.

  If he took a swing at the smug whoreson, then both would plummet down to the deck below. He was close enough that the menace on his face would be unmistakable even to an arrogant fool like Hardacre.

  “That’s it!” the man laughed. “I know you want to punch me or worse. I can see it in your eyes.”

  With the agility of a monkey, Hardacre shimmied part way down the mast, so Jonathan was now looking down at him.

  “I’ll give you first crack. Come on down and let’s see how much real fight there is left in you.”

  “Gela tebi! Bidatam!”

  Hardacre laughed, as though he actually knew what those foul insults meant and continued his descent down the mast. Jonathan had no clear recollection how he descended, only that he was now on the deck and just about every member of the crew had stopped their duties and watched them, the panther and the leopard, circling each other, shoulders hunched, teeth bared.

  Jonathan’s fury had wiped the smile off Hardacre’s face but not his air of confidence.

  “Go on! Take a swing, old man!”

  Jonathan did. Hardacre ducked under it effortlessly, but made no move to counterpunch. Jonathan readied his hands. Hardacre sprung to his feet lightly as a gazelle.

  Elias ran forward and put a restraining hand on Kit’s shoulder. Hardacre made a half-hearted attempt to shrug his first officer off; enough to make Nash grab part of his shirt instead. Elias’ other hand was extended toward Jonathan himself, obviously intent to keep the combatants apart.

  “Kit, you’re pushing this too far.”

  “No, I’m not. I know what I’m doing and so does Jonathan. Don’t you, old man?”

  Jonathan tore his eyes away from Kit and glanced at Elias who watched him with a degree of sympathy.

  “It’s your call, Jonathan,” he said. “I won’t stop you.”

  “Keep out it, Elias,” Hardacre called.

  Elias released Kit’s shirt with a slight shove that revealed what he thought about these proceedings.

  “There’s nothing to see here,” Elias yelled to the crowd of gathered sailors. “Get back to work, the scurvy lot of you!”

  After some muttering, the rest of the Terpsichore’s crew followed the lead of their first officer and went back to their stations. How much attention they paid to their duties was another matter entirely.

  “You’re too slow! I could have shot you through with flintlock already. Twice,” Hardacre taunted as they began to circle each other again.

  There, imprinted on the young man’s smug features, was the face of every man he saw the night of the raid – black faces and white. Every one of them including Kaddouri’s swarthy features and long, black beard appeared before him like manifesting demons.

  Jonathan surged forward with superhuman strength, taking Hardacre to the deck with a sickening thud.

  Dikala!

  The bastard laughed.

  Now straddling him, Jonathan raised both fists in the air ready to swing all of his might into breaking the pretty face of the captain. Before they fell halfway, Jonathan was winded by a blow to the solar plexus and Hardacre threw him off to roll across the deck and gain his feet.

  Jonathan swiftly followed. Hardacre readied himself in a wrestler’s stance.

  “Again, Jonathan! Come at me again! Use that anger! Don’t let it use you!”

  The instruction surprised him. Kit Hardacre really did want Jonathan to hit him.

  This time, his punch did connect – albeit a glancing blow.

  Hardacre showed no such reservation, delivering a direct right jab in return.

  Jonathan’s jaw lit up in pain and the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. He swallowed it.

  They took exploratory jabs at one another, a macabre dance as each man probed, looking for weakness.

  Jonathan saw Kit make an error and get too close. He took the captain in a clinch. Pound for pound, Jonathan was heavier and stronger. He could kill the Englishman if he wished.

  He squeezed a little tighter and, in his mind's eye, he saw himself squeezing tighter still until he could hear ribs crack and see the body of Kit Hardacre slide lifelessly to the deck.

  It would be so easy...

  “This is not who I am,” he growled. “I am not a violent man.”

  “Yes, you are,” his opponent panted. “You're a dangerous man. Own it. For your wife and daughters. For Morwena. You need to be a dangerous man...”

  Hardacre sagged in his arms, out of breath. Jonathan loosened his grip. A mistake. His feet became tangled in the captain’s. The younger man used it to his advantage to topple him like a tree.

  Air left his lungs. There was no time to get more as his rival landed heavily on top of him, winded also.

  “A weak man cannot be a virtuous man,” Hardacre panted.

  The words vibrated like the strings of the violin he played. Jonathan gathered his anger, his frustration, his fear and pushed them forward.

  He pushed hard enough to dislodge Kit. A punch put the man on his back. Jonathan readied another, but Kit lay there unresisting, the color of his cheek and jaw hinting at the bruise forming beneath it.

  “A free shot. Take it,” said Kit, offering a pained grin. “An enemy wouldn't give you any such consideration.”

  Jonathan stumbled to his feet, nerves jangling. He extended a hand to his prone friend. Kit looked at it for a moment. Hand met wrist, each man’s grip sure and strong, unshakeable like the unlikely bond forged here today.

  Hardacre used it to gain his feet.

  “We're going to war. We need you. Are you in?”

  Jonathan wiped a hand across his mouth and glanced down at the small amount of blood that glistened across his knuckles.

  “I'm in.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Mind your own business.”

  Nico dropped the crate, and the sharp crack echoed throughout the nearly empty warehouse.

  “Well, forgive me if I'm concerned about my sister,” he sneered.

  Morwena dropped her head and counted to ten.

  “All right, I’m sorry. Is that what you want to hear?”

  Nico was silent. She didn’t need to look at him to know that he went about his work sullenly.

  “You’ve been grumpy ever since the Terpsichore sailed.”

  “I don’t know what that has to do with anything,” she tried to argue valiantly, but her heart wasn’t in it.

  A long sigh from her brother told her the attempt wasn’t successful.

  “Have you ever been in love, Nicoli?”

  Her brother didn’t answer.

  “Nico?”

  “Yes, I think so. Maybe.”

  Morwena set down her ledger.

  “Really? Who is she?”

  “Well, well, well, nosing into someone else’s business has certainly cheered you up.”

  Morwena poked out her tongue.

  “Do you remember, Tuccia, The daughter of the tobacconist Di Salvo?”

  Morwena abandoned the examination of her own lackluster love life and picked up her brother’s news with glee.

  “So how long have you been courting her? Does
Father know? What of her parents?”

  “One year. Yes and Yes.”

  Morwena blinked rapidly, processing the answers. Nico folded his arms and grinned.

  “You’ve been so caught up in your business that you’ve paid attention to little else.” Then his voice sobered. “After you went to bed, I had a long talk with Papa, you know... about the future.”

  She made sure she kept her brother’s eye. She had not told him about her father’s will. As the only remaining son in the family, he would have expected to be his father’s successor. She remained as still as possible, giving only a small nod to say she had heard him.

  Nico dipped his head and swallowed.

  “I think he has done the right thing in giving you the business.” He finished the sentence in a rush as though he had been holding his breath.

  Gooseflesh crawled up and down her arms as though she was chilled by cold air. It was the answer she hoped for but not one she expected.

  “It should be yours, by right.”

  “I’m not as clever as you, Wen. You seem to juggle a dozen balls in the air and not drop one of them. I can’t do that. If you give me a single task to do, then I can do it. But all the things needed to run a business? No. I don’t have the temperament for it. But in me, you will find no one more loyal.”

  Morwena rose and enveloped her brother in a hug. “I cannot do this by myself, Nico. I need you with me as my right arm.”

  “What about your husband?”

  She pulled back.

  “I don’t have a husband,” she said, although she was quite worried that she knew what he meant. Perhaps, she should pretend to not understand. “And perhaps, it is better that way. Who’d want to marry me? I’m too bossy and, according to the terms Papa had drawn up, a man cannot have the business because he is married to me. No, I am a bad bargain.”

  “Not to the African, you’re not.”

  “Jonathan?” she asked innocently. “Why should you mention him in particular? There are plenty of fine men on the Terpsichore. I like that pirate, Kit. He’s a bit crazy like me. Elias? He’s a sweet man, the type that mamas would approve of...”

  “But you look at none of them the way you look at Mr. Afua.”