Shadow of the Corsairs

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Half a dozen naval officers appeared at the top of the stairs and jogged toward them at the sound of the governor’s raised voice. Jonathan saw Bentinck’s eyes flicker as though a spark had been struck. He put up his hand to halt the approach of the guards.

  “What do you know about The Dolphijn?” Bentinck asked.

  “Two weeks ago, we came across the ship in distress. She had been attacked. We rescued the remaining survivors.”

  “Where are they? Here in Sicily?”

  “I suppose some are.” Hardacre didn’t disguise his annoyance. “We couldn’t very well keep them on the off chance that you might be interested in our news.”

  Bentinck ignored the barb. “And Captain Segers?”

  Jonathan stepped forward. “He was grievously wounded when we arrived, General. I spoke only a few words with him before he died.”

  “And The Dolphijn?” asked Bentinck, who seemed to prefer Jonathan’s respectful manner to Hardacre’s offhanded style.

  “She was sunk.”

  “On whose orders?”

  Hardacre answered. The youthful clown was gone. A hardness lined his mouth. “My orders, General. Rather than risk it being salvaged and passing into enemy hands, I chose to finish the job the corsairs started.”

  It was fascinating to Jonathan, even after all this time, to see how pale skin betrayed emotion when one could more readily see the rise of blood. He watched color heighten on Bentinck’s cheeks momentarily.

  “Is that all your news?”

  “No. It is not.”

  Jonathan felt a hand clamp on his shoulder. Duckworth. He shook it off and glared at the man, baring his teeth in wordless menace.

  “Duckworth,” said the governor, rescuing the man,” escort the lady here to see my wife while I speak with these gentlemen.”

  The lieutenant grunted his disapproval but Morwena gifted him a glorious smile.

  “Why thank you, Your Excellency,” she said, punctuating her words with a curtsy. As she turned, Jonathan felt the deliberate touch of her hand on his arm and a look which was only for him. He watched her a moment, sashaying down the hall, chatting animatedly with the adjutant, the other male officials taking a second look as she passed.

  When Jonathan turned back, Bentinck wore a wry smile.

  “Well done, gentlemen.” He indicated the door with his hand. “You have exactly five minutes to tell me your business.”

  Hardacre needed no further invitation. He strolled into the Bentinck’s office as if he owned it. Jonathan and Elias followed.

  The captain flopped into one of the two chairs in front of the desk even before Bentinck had taken his seat behind it. “Do, please, be seated,” said the governor, stiffly.

  Jonathan placed the basket on a nearby leather sofa and retrieved the waxed cotton satchel. He took the remaining seat next to Hardacre while Elias sat on the sofa.

  “Captain Segers wanted this to be found,” said Jonathan, placing it on the edge of the desk. “They were his dying words to me. It was in a locked drawer for which he gave me the key. There are papers inside. It’s a dossier. From what I was able to translate, it’s information about the location of a certain group of Sicilians who have been abducted – about three hundred in number.”

  Bentinck’s eyes fell to the satchel. “Go on.”

  “It mentions your name and details your petitions to the Bey of Tunis to free the Sicilian slaves,” Jonathan continued. “It also details the strength of the fleet commanded by you and Admiral Thomas Fremantle. Eighty ships, Your Excellency.”

  The governor looked up sharply.

  “The papers also show The Dolphijn heading to Naples,” added Hardacre. “The French would be most interested in this information.”

  Bentinck ignored him and continued to address Jonathan. “Then why would Segers want you to find it?”

  “Who knows what plagues the conscience of a dying man?” he replied “Perhaps the opportunity to save lives? A final act of humanity before meeting his Maker?” Jonathan watched Bentinck consider his words.

  “Then I thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

  Bentinck half-rose, as if to reach out and slide the satchel toward himself when Hardacre placed his hand on top of the package.

  Bentinck sat back down and addressed the captain.

  “I see. So what is to be the price of your loyalty to mother England?”

  “Don’t interfere.”

  “In what precisely?”

  Jonathan glanced over at Elias who had remained silent throughout the exchange. However, he was paying close attention to the interplay. Jonathan would be interested in hearing Elias’ observations later.

  “There is a man mentioned in these papers,” continued Hardacre, “Kaddouri Al Zuebi, one of the most prolific slavers in the region. He is mine to deal with.”

  “I’m not interested in your private feud, Captain Hardacre. But I warn you. Keep out of the king’s business. If I find you interfering, you’ll find yourself in shackles before you can say Jack Robinson.”

  Hardacre grinned slowly. It struck Jonathan that the captain already considered the point won but wasn’t going to relinquish the goods without making his victory decisive.

  “I have no interest in the king’s business. You run your bloody war as you see fit, my lord, but don’t tell me you won’t be grateful for first-hand intelligence about what’s happening across the sea in North Africa – especially when I can tell you exactly where those Sicilian captives are being held.”

  Jonathan watched the two men size each other up a moment. It was Bentinck who blinked first.

  “If you’re going to be a thorn in my side, you may as well be useful about it,” the lieutenant-general conceded. “I expect a report from you monthly; more frequently if there is news. I’ll make sure you’re not unduly harried as long as your trade is lawful. But interfere in our operations and I will give the order to treat you and your ship as enemy combatants and have your men strung up as traitors.”

  “Agreed.”

  Bentinck wore a brief, puzzled look, as though he expected to be challenged on the terms, but he accepted Hardacre’s outstretched hand across the desk and shook it firmly. Jonathan joined Elias at the door, the captain following.

  “Oh, and Hardacre...”

  He turned back.

  “The next time you call, do it without the theatrics.”

  Hardacre once again delivered his exaggerated flourish and bow.

  “Now that is something I cannot promise.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Morwena looked out across the lawn tables and chairs that spilled out from the open doors of the large reception room with some satisfaction. It had not been easy to pull together a proper Sicilian wedding in just six weeks, but she had done it and earned the gratitude of her brother and new sister-in-law.

  At first, when Nico had come to see her looking so downcast, she thought something had happened at the warehouse – or worse still, that something had happened to the Terpsichore.

  An unexpected pregnancy was simple to deal with.

  “First babies always arrive early,” she had assured him. “Seven or eight months for the first. All your other bambinos will be born at nine months.”

  “Truly?” he’d replied.

  At first, she had been tempted to mock his naivety. But instead, she kept her expression innocent and nodded – keeping up the charade long enough for Nico to grow suspicious until she could contain her laughter no longer.

  “You worry about staying on Papa Di Salvo’s good side and I will organize a reception so fine they will talk of it and nothing else for months,” she’d promised. “But you will have to take on some of my duties at the warehouse in exchange. Deal?”

  Nico had rapidly agreed without once ever suspecting why she had made her generous offer.

  Jonathan.

  Jonathan had needed her that night he had shown up at her door so exhausted. He said he loved her. Morwena knew
she would have given herself to him that night. The physical desire between them was undeniable and yet he had denied it – faithful to the woman he had wed even though she had died.

  How could she possibly compete with such devotion?

  Bah!

  It would have been easier if they had quarreled, said nasty words to one another – thrown a pot or two – so she could scream how much she hated him. But she didn’t hate him. And he didn’t hate her.

  So that was why, in that emotional purgatory, she had shown up on the Terpsichore dressed in her finery, bearing those gifts for Lord Bentinck. She had been determined to show Jonathan she was fine after his rejection of her.

  Perfectly fine.

  Not a care in the world.

  Oh, how she lied.

  And yet, so did he.

  Morwena noticed how closely he stood by her side while she smiled, flirted, and touched the arms of those English officers. And the tension in his stance when one of them lingered too long peering at her cleavage...

  Yes, to her shame, Morwena had tried to make him jealous and even that was a failure. He never came to call on her as he had so often done over the past year. Whenever they met now it was in company, usually at the warehouse, and the talk was always about business.

  Ah yes, Nico would never know how much of a favor he’d done her in agreeing to take over some of her duties there...

  She looked about the reception setting again. The Florios had been so kind in letting their villa to be used. That she had won the admiration of young Vincenzo Florio certainly helped. Although nearly a decade younger than her, he followed her around like a besotted swain. He would do anything for her, and Morwena was not ashamed to exploit it for this event.

  The lad loved business and enterprise as much as she did. While other ancient families were being swept away by the changing tide of history, the Florios – and young Vincenzo in particular – were passionate and making the most of this new age of industry.

  Right now, he was talking to her father, sitting in the shade of a vine-covered arbor. She watched the young man lean in and frown.

  Oh dear, she would have to intervene. Papa was having a bad day today. He had spent an age getting ready and they were nearly late for the church; then he had forgotten why all the family was gathered until she reminded him it was Nico’s wedding day.

  At that, he seemed to rally and she hoped it would last until after the reception, but now he was sagging again. Where was Aunt Savarina? If Papa became agitated, Morwena would need her to help calm him down.

  “Papa!” she called, attracting his attention as she approached. Vincenzo looked relieved.

  “Morwena! You’re here! Where am I? I don’t know this place.”

  “We’re at the Florios’, Papa, remember? They’re helping us host the reception. I wanted to see to all of the arrangements before Nico and Tuccia arrived.”

  “Why? Where are they?”

  “They’re coming up from the church, Papa. They got married today, remember? Look! Here they are!”

  She directed his attention down the path that led to the chapel on the other side of the creek that separated the house from its outbuildings. A knot of people were crossing the small, stone bridge in the wake of the happy couple.

  Thomasso tugged Vincenzo’s elbow. “My boy, Nico, got married today, you know.”

  Vincenzo glanced at Morwena with a small measure of alarm. She reassured him with a smile. He turned back to Thomasso. “Si, Senor Gambino.”

  “Morwena, dear, who are all of these people again?”

  She swallowed a lump in her throat.

  “They’re our family and friends, Papa,” she said as the group drew closer.

  “I recognize most, but I don’t know all of them, do I?”

  “Who don’t you recognize?”

  Thomasso seemed to rally again. He straightened in his chair and pointed toward the crowd. “The young men Nico was talking to before the wedding. There they are, walking just behind your cousin, Angelo.”

  “They’re our friends from the ship, the Terpsichore. They’re Christopher, Elias, and Jonathan. You’ve met them a couple of times. Do you remember?”

  Thomasso frowned a moment, clearly searching his memory. “Jonathan... his family grows coffee. The other two are tea drinkers – English. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  Morwena nodded in confirmation and watched her father let out a sigh.

  “Sometimes, my memory isn’t what it was, Daughter.”

  ***

  Jonathan hadn’t realized he was looking for Morwena until his eyes fell on her at the church earlier that day. She had worn the dark red dress he had seen her in once before. It was a color that brightened her cheeks and a cut and style which hinted at the curves beneath.

  While everyone else paid attention to the bride and groom, he had been content to stand back and watch Morwena as he might have watched a gazelle on the plains, the creature unaware of his presence.

  Did she realize how much she enlivened a room? Did other people appreciate how hard she worked? The only time he had seen her seated was during the nozze, the wedding, itself.

  She seemed to have her eyes on five different things at once and, yet, she spared everyone a smile and a word.

  Everyone except him.

  That thought had nagged him like a toothache all day. He wanted her smile directed at him. He wanted to be the one she laughed with and he certainly wanted to be the one who held her in his arms as they danced.

  He was jealous and he hated himself for it. He hated himself because he had no right to be jealous. He hated himself because he could no longer be faithful to his wife.

  Jonathan felt his shoulder nudged.

  “Hey, cheer up,” said Elias. “This is a wedding.”

  Jonathan forced a smile onto his face.

  “I was… what was that English term you used? Woolgathering?”

  His friend gave a nod but the crease in his brow didn’t disappear. “Are you sure? You’ve not been yourself for weeks.”

  Jonathan decided to go on the offensive. He slapped Elias on the back, gripping his shoulder. “There are plenty of unattached signorinas here, perhaps you should follow our captain’s lead and exercise some of your English charm on them.”

  “Fine, fine. Have it your way. But you can’t go on ignoring Morwena forever.”

  “Mind your own business, Brother.” Jonathan let an edge creep into his voice.

  And, as though she knew she was being spoken about, Morwena broke away from a small group of guests who had gathered and started toward them.

  Elias acknowledged it with a sly smile. “I think I’ll go chat with Kit.”

  “That would be a good idea.”

  Jonathan watched a smile brighten Morwena’s face and cursed his traitorous heart as he found his own lips lift in response. But she did not look at him; she directed that smile at Elias as he moved away, kissing him on both cheeks in greeting.

  Before he could stop himself, Jonathan made his way toward them.

  “Thank you so much for being here today for Nico and Tuccia,” he heard her say. “It was a lovely wedding, was it not?”

  “It was made so because of your hard work. This is a fine wedding reception,” said Jonathan. Her eyes met his for the briefest moment.

  “A splendid job,” echoed Elias, stepping to the side, so he and Morwena stood face to face. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to have a quick word with Kit – perhaps he can give me some advice about something…”

  “Good afternoon, Jonathan. Thank you for coming,” she said primly after Elias left.

  Her eyes slid away from his, looking for escape. “Nico tells me the officers of the Terpsichore have planned entertainment for us. That was kind.”

  She started to turn away, but he took hold of her hand.

  “Morwena, please. Don’t do this,” he said. “Don’t pretend we’re strangers to one another.”

  Her smile turned brittl
e. “Why, don’t be silly. Of course we’re not strangers to one another. But I do have to go.”

  Jonathan was about to call her out for the lie he knew it to be when he heard her name called. A youth with a shock of black hair and a faint attempt at facial hair at his upper lip rapidly approached.

  “The cook wants to know if you want the pastries served now,” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, Vincenzo! You’re such a dear.” Morwena gave Jonathan one last, brief look as if to say “There! I told you so” and she hurried away, issuing instructions as she went with the boy trailing along behind. “Tell him all three tables are to be filled…”

  Jonathan made his way toward the villa to retrieve his violin and sheet music. If they were soon to start serving food, the bride and groom would be nearly ready to make their official entrance and the festivities would begin.

  He remembered Gottleib telling him of the magnificent concert halls in Germany, trimmed in gilt and hundreds of chandeliers with glittering crystal scattering the light to paint rainbows across every surface. As a young man learning to play the violin, Jonathan would close his eyes and imagine himself performing in such a place.

  He set up his music stand and smiled at the memory. Ah, the boundless opportunities and optimism of youth, when everything was still possible. Still, playing at a wedding for friends was not to be dismissed lightly and when it was in a large reception room for one of the premier families of Palermo, then it was as good as performing at the Gewandhaus in Leipzig.

  The notes on the sheet music had been another language to master but were now as familiar to him as his mother tongue. The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba, by Handel, the English composer, was the first serious work he mastered. It was a piece of music dedicated to the mother of his people, the beloved of Solomon, his ancestor. How appropriate that it would welcome a bride today.

  He concentrated on the music before him, the press of the catgut under his fingers, the draw of the bow across the strings. He held the violin in place at his chin and the music went through him, in him, and touched something deep.

  Jonathan opened his eyes. He glanced up to his audience, meeting the eyes of both friends and strangers until they fell on Morwena who stood at the back of the room. He played for her, hoping it touched her soul as it did his.