Shadow of the Corsairs

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  “So where’s their vessel?”

  Kit looked about. “Good question. But it’s not here now.”

  “Kit, shall we send a boarding party?” Elias asked.

  “A small one. I want to know what we’re dealing with first... Elias, this one is yours. Jonathan, go with him.”

  The Terpsichore and The Dolphijn rocked momentarily in unison through the increasing chop. Grappling hooks tamed the Dutch vessel and Jonathan, Elias, and two of the Terpsichore crew made a timed leap across. The Terpsichore then stood off to avoid the clashing damage of vessel to vessel in the rolling seas.

  The deck was awash with blood. The bodies of a dozen men lay tumbled about. Wordlessly, Elias indicated to the others to spread out and secure the deck.

  Jonathan approached one of the bodies. The sight sickened him. The light skin of the Dutchman was a waxy white, reminding him of a suckling pig drained of blood. Sightless eyes stared heavenward. There was nothing more to be done for this man. Jonathan said a silent prayer for his soul.

  He approached another. This one, in a dark blue jacket, was clearly an officer. The hand clutching his belly moved a fraction and a weak moan of pain came from the man’s lips. His bleary eyes found Jonathan and widened. Jonathan didn’t miss the small tremor of fear that went through the man.

  “God verlos ons.” God deliver us.

  Jonathan didn’t speak Dutch, but he spoke enough German thanks to Gottlieb to understand the words. He went down on one knee and put a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder

  “Wir sind hier um dir zu helfen.” We’re here to help you. Jonathan waited for the words to sink in, hoping they were close enough to this man’s native language to make himself understood.

  The officer, Jonathan guessed, was aged about forty-five, although his expression of agony aged him. Large creases marked his brow.

  “Ik ben Sebers. Kapitein Sebers.” he gasped. I am Captain Sebers. “Er waren te veel mensen, we waren overspoeld.” There were too many, we were overrun. “Het is te laat nu.”

  These words seemed to Jonathan closer to English than German, but he understood them immediately. It is too late now.

  Mut, Jonathan told him. Courage.

  The blond-headed man, the front of his jacket almost black with blood, took a deep breath. He reached down and indicated his pocket, then rattled out a few hoarsely whispered words.

  Key. My cabin. Logs. Papers...

  Then he breathed out and spoke no more.

  Jonathan whistled to catch Elias’ attention. He held up a small brass key he had found in the officer’s pocket, then pointed straight down.

  Elias nodded, understanding the intent. He held up five fingers. Five minutes and no longer.

  Jonathan spied a broken hatch and decided to use that rather than the steps to reach below decks. There were other men – obviously able men – on the ship manning the pumps and they still had no idea whether they were friend or foe.

  He peered down into the passage and saw no one. He lowered himself down, dropping the last few inches to the floor as silently as a cat. Lessons his father and uncle taught him about listening for prey served him well. Know your own breathing, so you can ignore it and listen for the breathing of another. Listen for the shadows. Always listen for the shadows.

  All the noise down here seemed to be coming from the orlop or hold below the upper decks. Jonathan headed aft to the captain’s quarters.

  They had been ransacked for items of value. Chairs were upturned and broken, curtains from around the bed had been pulled down and looted. Glass in the cabinets built into the hull were smashed, the doors open wide. Gaps between weighty tomes indicated more theft.

  He scanned across the spines of the remaining books but did not find what he looking for. Jonathan glanced down at the key to familiarize himself with its size and shape.

  He had assumed the dying captain was of the belief the ships logs might still be salvaged but the logs were gone. The key, however, looked to be the right size for a desk drawer, if not the cabinet. He found the carved oak desk, with fresh scores in the wood around the escutcheon. An attempt had been made to force entry and abandoned, possibly to rush to the assistance of those stopping the vessel taking on water.

  The key slipped quietly into the lock.

  He heard voices speaking Arabic which grew louder, accompanied by the sound of boots climbing stairways.

  Jonathan pulled open the drawer and retrieved the only thing inside, a waterproof, waxed-cotton satchel. A quick squeeze suggested it contained a wad of papers. He slipped it inside his shirt and ducked down, hopefully hidden enough from view.

  “The other ship! They’ve boarded!”

  The footsteps became running and a dozen men in all rushed past the master quarters without looking in, heading for the aft stairs and the upper deck.

  Elias was up there with the two other crew members from the Terpsichore. He doubted there were any Dutchmen alive and able to fight. They were outnumbered at least three to one and it would take time for the Terpsichore to come about and attempt another boarding.

  Worse than that, The Dolphijn might be unable to maneuver but if she was still broadside on to the Terpsichore, the Dutch frigate's eight pounders fired at close range might do enough damage to cripple or even scuttle her.

  Jonathan looked about at the strewn paper and the wreckage of the room. He reached for the oil lamps mounted on the walls and hastily emptied their fuel. Using a flint and steel, he set a strip of paper alight, threw it on the paraffin-soaked bed, and saw it start to smolder

  It was the only thing he could think of to buy enough time. He set fire to loose papers and they ignited immediately.

  Thick, choking, black smoke gathered at the ceiling as the master cabin began to burn. He grabbed a brass lamp base and hurled it at the mullion windows. Several of them broke, bringing fresh air rushing in, more fuel to the fire.

  Let’s hope this works. At that thought, Jonathan ran back up to the deck. It was in a mêlée. Elias and the other men were being backed up to the forecastle. He pulled out his sword, then resheathed it and took a hold of his knife. This was going to be a close quarters affair and he wanted a weapon he knew well.

  “Fire!” he yelled in Arabic. “Fire down below!”

  Several of the corsairs turned immediately, just in time to see smoke beginning to rise from the hatches along the deck

  Few of the Barbary pirates paid special attention to Jonathan running toward them; it seemed there were enough Africans in their number not to immediately recognize that he was not one of their own in the billowing smoke and melee.

  He dashed past them as the men began to panic at their sudden predicament. Flames erupted from a hatch grate – the passage below had become a chimney to the blaze. Jonathan scanned for Elias among the men backing away from those still engaging them and eventually he spotted the man’s sandy hair.

  Then a massive thud from below as something – a powder keg? – exploded rocked the ship and those still forcing themselves on Jonathan’s companions abandoned their efforts and scattered.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Jonathan yelled.

  The two Terpsichore crewmen threw themselves over the side as the vessel listed even further than before. Elias stood on the rail, grasping the shroud with his left hand to steady himself. In his right hand was a cutlass – but not the one he brought with him. His face was as pale as the corpse Jonathan first examined, and his clothes were soaked in blood. It was impossible to know if it was Elias’ or someone else’s.

  “Five minutes, I said! Where the hell have you been?”

  It was not like Elias to use profanity.

  “Creating a distraction.”

  It was answer enough.

  “Let’s not hang around.” Elias looked over the side of The Dolphijn and swayed, pitching forward as though he was about to swoon. Jonathan laid a hand on his shoulder and looked at him. Elias’ eyes were wide.

  “Are you all right?”
/>   The Englishman nodded but it wasn’t convincing.

  A battle cry erupted. Four men had regathered in spite of the ship sinking beneath them and, with swords drawn, ran toward them. Jonathan paused and let Elias leap first. If the man was injured, as he suspected, then he would need help making it back to the Terpsichore. Jonathan threw himself over the side, narrowly avoiding the sweep of a scimitar.

  The plunge from the deck smashed the breath from him. His lungs burned and he had no idea how far he was from the surface.

  His heart pounded against his chest. Was this how his end was to be? No matter. Mellesse would be there waiting for him, so too Debre, Belkis, and Hagos. He could finally be at peace.

  Then, almost by accident, he broke the surface of the water and reflexively gasped in large lungfuls of air. Flailing, he knew a moment of panic when he opened his eyes. The Terpsichore was not there! It should have been there.

  No! He had not cared if he died a moment ago but now he wanted to live. And suddenly, it was not Mellesse his mind’s eye conjured. It was Morwena. Her ivory skin, a hint of blush from the sun, her lips. He reached out a hand as if toward her – and felt it caught in a viselike grip.

  “Easy there, Mr. Afua, we’ve got ya!” Giorgio’s voice rumbled like distant thunder. He was hauled onto the lighter.

  Jonathan drew breath to speak but only wet coughs came out. He attempted another breath and forced the words out.

  “Elias. He’s injured.”

  “Don’t you worry about him,” Giorgio continued. “Gus and I have fished him out.”

  Jonathan forced himself up to his elbows. Elias lay in the bottom of the boat. The seawater had washed away most of the blood from his skin and clothing, leaving only evidence of a few gashes, but his skin was deathly pale.

  “Stop staring at me like I’m a dead man,” he croaked.

  “Then stop looking like one.”

  Elias forced out a smile.

  Jonathan dropped the waxed cotton satchel on Hardacre’s desk and watched with satisfaction at seeing the bottle of laudanum nearly drop from his fingers as he looked up in surprise.

  “You don’t need that.”

  “Keep out of my business, Jonathan.”

  “Elias is actually injured and he doesn’t need opiates.”

  “Lucky him.”

  “You’re a better man than that,” said Jonathan. “Stronger. A weak man cannot be a virtuous man – you told me that yourself.”

  Hardacre glowered at him. “I hate it when I’m right.” He shoved the bottle back in the medicine chest, locking it as he did so, then downed the already poured marsala, poured himself a second, then held out the decanter in mute invitation. Jonathan shook his head.

  Kit nodded at the satchel.

  “What’s this?”

  “Something which might be of interest.”

  “Are you going to tell me or are you going to have me guess?”

  “It’s from The Dolphijn. A dying officer thought it was important we should have their logs but when I got down there, the logs were gone.”

  “So what’s this then?”

  “Something better...”

  Knowing he had the captain’s full attention, Jonathan opened the satchel and pulled out the bundle of papers.

  “It’s a dossier on Kaddouri. His new headquarters, the size of his fleet, shipping manifests for more than two dozen ships... plans for raids... including one on Sicily.”

  Hardacre’s eyes widened. He took the papers and spread them across his desk. “You’ve looked at these? They’re in... Dutch, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you can read it?”

  “Enough of it. The Dolphijn saw off an attempted boarding six weeks ago. They managed to disable to the xebec. They transferred everyone and everything to The Dolphijn and dropped off their unexpected passengers on Tunisian soil. I don’t think The Dolphijn was set upon again by chance. They were probably looking for this.”

  “How many survivors did we pick up from The Dolphijn?”

  “Ten.”

  “All of them from the crew?”

  Jonathan nodded.

  “Pity,” Hardacre said, his eyes flicking across the documents. “It would have been handy if we had one of the corsairs to interrogate.”

  “I wonder if the information here might be of interest to your would-be friend, Lord Bentinck.”

  Hardacre looked up with a gleam in his eyes. “I think it would be of interest to all of us. And it seems to me an excellent way to have his lordship accept the offer of our services and look the other way.”

  The captain bundled the papers back into their satchel and slipped it in the drawer. He rose from his desk and approached the door. “Tell Mr. Grace to set course for Palermo. I’m going to check on our wounded warrior.”

  Jonathan nodded and followed him from the cabin. Hardacre had reached as far as the first rung on the step when he looked back and called out.

  “Thank you, friend.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jonathan looked in on Elias for a few minutes before starting his watch. The man slept fitfully, but at least he had regained some color in contrast with the stark white of his bandages.

  The mid-watch was quiet, the crewmen went about their business without any fuss, their tasks punctuated with a whistled tune or a song which one man would start then another would add another version. Since he was not familiar with the practice or the tune, Jonathan remained within his own thoughts.

  How strange that when he feared for his life, his thoughts turned to Morwena. He rested his elbows on the rails and watched the thin, white waves that floated on the black ocean slide past the hull.

  He felt the weight of the cross around his neck. He ran his hand along the lines of gold that doubled back over and over itself until it reached the center – something like the maze he’d found in the gardens of Palermo. Around and around and around until he finally reached the center of it.

  The center. The place of decision. How often had it been over the past six months that he had trod the same path over and over again? But perhaps he hadn’t, perhaps he hadn’t really gone over the same ground. Perhaps, as in the maze, he was actually closer to the center, closer to the truth than he actually thought.

  And at the center was Morwena and a future with the madman Hardacre and the men of the Terpsichore who were devoted to him and his mission to make right his past.

  But Jonathan’s past was a part of who he was and he would not change that for the world. Indeed, he could not change it, even if he wanted to – and that felt right.

  Perhaps, the best way to honor the memories of his family was to build a future, a brighter future than the world he lived in now. How would their honor and their memories be served if he was not there?

  He wanted to see Morwena in person again to see if he imagined the vision of the beautiful woman who helped save him from the deep. If had been at all mistaken, then it would be easy for him to right himself and go on as before.

  ***

  Morwena was alone this evening and glad of it. Aunt Savarina had insisted Thomasso recover from his ordeal at her home for a few weeks. Nico dined with Tuccia, his fiancée, and her family.

  Today, she put away her mourning veils and wore one of her favorite dresses instead. It was a clear blue, like the summer sky. Forty days was long enough to wear the black, to pray for Pietro’s soul – for whatever good that might do. He had compounded his many grave sins by ending his life with a mortal one.

  The Terpsichore had put out to sea a week after her brother’s funeral and had been gone more than a month, although she tried hard not to count the hours. There was still a shop to run and a warehouse to manage and, while those filled her days, in the evenings her thoughts always returned to Jonathan.

  She jumped at the sound of the authoritative rap at the door. Her embroidery needle went clear through the fabric and into the index finger of her left hand.

  Pig’s Miser
y.

  A drop of blood welled up on the wounded finger. She popped it in her mouth and sucked.

  The sound of heavy evening rain surrounded her like a cloak. It had settled in an hour ago. But here by the hearth in the kitchen, there was a degree of cheer.

  The sharp raps started again.

  “I’m coming,” she yelled. Perhaps, it was Nico who had forgotten his key.

  She opened the door and found a large figure huddled on the porch, looking for surcease from the rain.

  “Morwena.”

  It was almost as though her heart started vibrating at the sound. Her name from Jonathan’s lips felt right. Oh, how she missed him.

  She reached out and took him by the hand – as much to bring him out of the rain as it was to reduce the risk of being overlooked by nosy neighbors.

  To be entertaining a man. Alone. Why, the damage to her reputation would be incalculable... if she actually gave a damn.

  She closed the door and the sound of water streaming heavily from the eaves, splashing on the cobbles outside, was almost silenced. She turned toward him. He appeared almost as though he had fallen asleep on his feet in the mere seconds she had looked away.

  “Jonathan?” she whispered.

  He started, as though, indeed, he was coming awake. He shucked off his damp outer coat and allowed her to hang it on a brass peg.

  “I wasn’t expecting...”

  “Shhh.” He raised a finger to her lips to accent his “shush” and accidentally brushed her lower lip as he moved it away. The sensation went through her like lightning where it tingled and sparked along her nerve endings.

  She managed to catch his face in the lamplight. His eyes seemed heavy with exhaustion.

  The initial delight at seeing him again sobered. She took his hand once more and led him upstairs to the intimate warmth of the kitchen.

  “Jonathan?” Everything was embodied in her question. Once again, he touched a finger to her lips, and stepped closer as though he were about to take her in his arms. She felt the ache of her limbs as though they, of their own accord, wanted to wrap themselves about his body.