Shadow of the Corsairs

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  That left the Terpsichore now rigged with explosives and dozens of barrels of paraffin. Kit and two other men would set the schooner alight as they brought her into the harbor at speed to crash among the galiots, abandoning ship before the explosives did their business.

  But the timing was everything. One misstep would unleash hell on them, and not their enemy.

  By early evening, an hour before last light. Jonathan and Elias were ready to leave the ship to sail into Bagrada.

  Kit approached them. What could be said, that hadn’t already been said? No words were adequate to the moment, so none were spoken.

  Jonathan, Kit, and Elias clasped wrists. The three of them bound together willingly, eternally it now seemed, in a bond of friendship only brothers-in-arms could know. They were the three fold cord, not easily broken.

  Jonathan felt his wrist squeezed tight for a moment before Kit released it and gave the command.

  “Lower the boats!”

  It had been eighteen months since Jonathan had last been in this place. It had taken a heavy bombardment then and a number of buildings – warehouses, shops – had not been repaired. Any villagers who had once lived in this place had long abandoned their homes. Only Kaddouri’s stronghold had been repaired and fortified.

  Even his private suites in a new, separately fortified building – double-storied with guards’ quarters beneath – were shrouded in darkness.

  He and Elias had parted ways two hours ago with an agreement to meet on the western side of the harbor shortly after dawn. By then their work in the plan would be done and, hopefully, Bagrada would be in a state of mayhem.

  They had carried with them three each of six explosive charges with long, slow-burning fuses. The first charge, to be lit by Elias, would be timed to go off at first light.

  Now, the night sky above was beginning to lighten – half an hour perhaps before the dawn twilight where the fajr would be called and Bagrada would awaken. But, for now, everyone slept soundly, and the guards that were about were complacent and sleepy. Kit had been right, as usual. Late at night was not the time for mischief – it was early morning when the whole world slept.

  So far, he had met with no difficulties.

  Behind the thick, stone walls of the compound he heard the voices of the enslaved, could feel the pull of the wretched humanity. Jonathan said a silent prayer for Ludwig Gottleib, his friend and mentor who never lived to see liberation, never again to see his homeland.

  He scrambled up to the top of the wall and crawled his way across the top of it until he reached the tiled roof. Jonathan lowered himself down into an internal courtyard and turned slowly to orient himself.

  The records room was his target. “Take what you want and destroy the rest,” Kit had instructed. “If we aren’t lucky enough to kill Kaddouri, then make sure that it takes him years to rebuild.”

  Jonathan found the room and made short work of its lock – a newly acquired skill, thanks to Kit. He ignored the ledgers and looked for correspondence. He searched for the name of Hamid Addis – and found it. He stuffed everything he could into his satchel and set the last of his charges just as the first cries of the call to prayer sounded.

  Then, in the distance – boom!

  A sound like thunder rolled across Bagrada. Jonathan used a flint and striker to set light to the frayed corner of a loose piece of paper. He used that to set a spot fire among papers at the back of the room then hurried to light the fuse on his charge in a small alcove.

  “Fire!” he yelled in Arabic, running from the records room. “Fire!”

  Guards stirred as Jonathan reached the middle of the compound and, in the confusion, no one identified him as a stranger.

  “Fire! I think it’s coming from the treasury!” He pointed to where smoke now billowed through the open records room door. Another guard emerged. Jonathan knocked him cold and took the ring of iron keys around his waist.

  Boom!

  Jonathan gritted his teeth; that was the second of Elias’ bombs. His first would be next and he needed to be as far away from here as possible when it went off.

  He unlocked the slave holding pens, screaming “fire” as he went. Some of the men reacted quickly to follow him. Others stared wide-eyed at the stranger. Jonathan sprinted through the exercise yard to the large double gates. He fumbled for the right key for a moment, aware of the press of men behind him desperate for escape.

  The gates opened and they all spilled out.

  The freed slaves ran every which way, joining in the panic on the streets. Jonathan broke away, managing to reach the corner of the building before that familiar but frightening blow of scorching heat touched his back ahead of the deafening roar of an explosion.

  The dawn was now light enough to distinguish colors and shapes, and with it uniforms and the silver glint of drawn scimitars. Jonathan made his way westward, keeping in the shadows. He drew out his second charge, placed and lit it, then approached the location of the third.

  Bagrada was in uproar.

  ***

  The Terpsichore was hard under sail, running with an onshore wind that drove the vessel at an angle toward the harbor and the fleet within.

  The boats that carried the ten men who would take The Foudre had slipped away in the Terpsichore’s wake just a short time ago. The assault on the French frigate was about to begin, the force led by Gus taking advantage of the pre-dawn darkness to approach unseen.

  As first light broke and the fleet at harbor emerged from the blackness, a column of smoke could be seen arising in the town and being blown inshore by the stiffening breeze. A few moments later, a second column bloomed.

  The Terpsichore was now as far offshore as The Foudre and, briefly, men could be seen engaged in hand to hand combat on the deck.

  Hardacre gave the word to ignite the two barrels of paraffin on the forecastle and tip over the two on the main deck. As the two men went forward, a third column of smoke onshore rose heavenward and was torn apart by the wind.

  ***

  The remaining charges went off in quick succession and appeared to have achieved their aim of drawing attention inward on the town. Jonathan worked to avoid the men who had started flooding off the ships in the harbor to lend aid on the shore. He was almost at the spot where he and Elias had arranged to meet when a figure stepped in front of him.

  Jonathan raised his knife and the man immediately raised his arms. “Whoa! It’s me!”

  Elias. He sheathed his weapon and embraced the man.

  “I take it all went well,” said Jonathan.

  “So far, so good,” the first officer replied. “The place is a mess. Let’s find a vantage point to – oh, Lord! Look at that!”

  Jonathan turned in the direction Elias pointed. From where they stood, the Terpsichore was about a thousand yards offshore, her forecastle and deck ablaze. Flames were beginning to climb the number one jib and staysail. At that distance, it would be less than five minutes before the ship crashed into the harbor.

  Others had noticed the rapidly incoming hellburner and were beginning to react. A few of the galiots had raised anchor and the cries of oar masters could be heard trying to rally incomplete complements of slaves at oar, but they moved with difficulty among the other vessels in the harbor and the wind against them.

  One of the outer moored galiots attempted a shot at the Terpsichore from its position at anchor but the small caliber gun missed. The crew scrambled to reload as the blazing ship, its foresail now ignited, veered slightly in the wind but came on at full speed.

  In the distance, Jonathan saw a sail being raised on The Foudre and nudged Elias to draw his transfixed gaze from the doomed Terpsichore.

  “We’ve done it…” the first officer said breathlessly, taking, as did Jonathan, the running up of the sail as a sign that the crew of the Terpsichore now ruled the French frigate.

  They looked back just as the Terpsichore cut off the bow of the galiot that had fired on it. Thirty seconds later, it ground alo
ng the side of another vessel and a half-minute after that had crashed to a blazing halt amongst the two dozen ships in the harbor.

  The deck of their ship was now ablaze from stem to stern, the sails equally engaged. Jonathan felt a twist of regret for the vessel that had carried him away from captivity. He could only imagine how Elias felt watching his home of some years now in its final moments.

  The moored galiots that had not been crippled arresting the violent intrusion of the Terpsichore amongst them were now scrambling to get enough oarsmen assembled to escape the conflagration. Jonathan and Elias watched – and waited.

  As Jonathan drew breath to question the lack of the planned explosion, there was a sudden voluble eruption of flames through the mid-deck.

  “I think we should –” said Elias.

  The Terpsichore exploded, the burst and ignition of barrels of paraffin below deck having heralded the detonation of her explosives.

  They shielded their eyes and squatted as the blast and debris reached even as far away as they were. When the smoke and mayhem eased a little, they saw at least half the vessels of Kaddouri’s fleet destroyed or badly damaged.

  “Let’s go,” said Elias, and they fled the harbor for where they had beached their boat.

  Reunited on The Foudre, they had shared tales of the action they encountered. Gus revealed there had not been a dozen of Kaddouri’s men aboard the French frigate but only five with a number of slaves. Two of them were from the frigate’s original crew and joined the fray without hesitation. The taking of The Foudre had been quick and the only injury to one of the Terpsichore’s men had been inflicted, ironically, by a slave half-crazed by his captivity.

  The crew had also discovered Kaddouri had, indeed, been preparing The Foudre to challenge The Milford – it came complete with a full supply of shot and a generous amount of gunpowder.

  As for Kit and the men who had remained on the Terpsichore and piloted it to its explosive demise, it came as no surprise to either Jonathan or Elias that the captain had left the abandonment until the very last second. He stayed aboard at the wheel until the last five hundred yards then plunged from the very back of the poop deck after lashing the wheel. By the time his crewman picked him up, the Terpsichore had decimated Kaddouri’s fleet and Hardacre had only narrowly escaped being hit by burning debris.

  As the reunited crew sailed away from the Tunisian coast, they were approached by a single galiot that had escaped the harbor intact and with a full complement at the oars, but a volley of shots from just one of the frigate’s twelve pounders saw it flee.

  ***

  Jonathan was out of sorts; adrift as though something were incomplete ever since they had returned to port. He didn’t want Morwena to see him like this. He sent her a note telling her of his safe return and that he would come to her soon.

  He walked out of the city feeling the weight of a pack on his back – no less a burden then the one he carried on his soul. In the week that passed, Jonathan could count the number of hours he slept on both hands.

  Of all the correspondence he had retrieved, read through and translated from his raid on Kaddouri’s records, one letter from Hamid Addisu was seared into his memory.

  “... you will find them camped just west of Guber near the banks of the Blue Nile. I have installed one of my men as part of the German’s work party. He will be in Guber each market day. He knows to approach the Arab wearing green.

  “Only the man Tewodros Afua, who answers to the name Jonathan, is of value, although you may suit yourself as to what you take for your trade. The German would be good for ransom, too, I suppose.

  “Send word when Afua is in your custody and make your usual arrangement regarding ransom, but not too soon. Let them grieve first. Make the demand large enough to bankrupt the family should they choose to pay. Let them live with their torment. I will tell them what their betrayal costs at my good time.

  “The messenger who brings you this instruction also has gold for your payment.

  “Hamid Addisu, representative of Balambaras Asserat.”

  After two hours of walking, Jonathan left the road and followed the gently sloping upward paths away from the farms and fields toward Monti Sicani and the landscape that looked enough like the Highlands of Ethiopia to satisfy his need to be alone.

  He could weep there. He could scream his utter helplessness to the heavens and no one would think less of him.

  Let him die for a time. Let Tewodros Afua die, and everything he was before that spring day two years ago.

  Jonathan prayed that whatever remained – the husk, the hollow, the ghost – would be enough to start afresh and would be enough for Morwena. He had warned her he was a broken man but, nonetheless, she had started to heal him.

  Soon, she would have his whole heart, without reservation.

  But now he had to prepare himself to say goodbye.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  September 1813

  Morwena was a coward. She knew it. It had been many, many months since Jonathan came to her shop with his hand bruised and she had farewelled him on the eve of battle.

  In all that time since, she had seen him only a dozen times – and one of those had been by accident.

  He had looked different, reserved. The beard he wore seemed deliberate, like a barrier that further removed him from her. The conclusion was clear in her opinion. Jonathan was still in love with his wife and it would always be that way, regardless of how much he wanted her.

  She would simply have to get used to that fact.

  She coped the best way she knew how – throwing herself into business matters. There was another warehouse she had her eye on. If she could sustain another four months at the same profit levels, she would feel confident enough to arrange for Nico to make an offer on her behalf.

  She always left Nico in charge of running the warehouse when the Terpsichore was in port and, when they were at sea for another trading run, she would swap places with him at the store.

  Now, the Terpsichore was gone for good, and her friends and business partners were destined to be landlubbers for a while.

  After a busy morning of merchants coming and going, picking up their goods, she savored the quiet afternoon to tally the books.

  “It’s been too long, I’ve missed you, sister Morwena.”

  “Osman!” She set down her pen and greeted him. “When did you return from Egypt? I’m afraid Jonathan’s not here.”

  “I only arrived today, but it is you I came to see.”

  “You have a new shipment of coffee for me? We’re down to our last sack. You’ve made a very tidy profit so far. I can write you a check now for the value so far or would you like to wait for the complete sale of that order?”

  Morwena fell to silence when she realized Osman did not sit down on the chair opposite her desk. The silence continued a moment longer until her full attention was on the man in front of her.

  “You are very fond of my cousin.”

  She looked down and closed the ledger book, flipped closed the lid of her ink pot.

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  When she looked up, Osman was regarding her thoughtfully, his focus inward.

  “Is that something which causes you discomfort?” she asked. “I suppose you would prefer if Jonathan returned home and perhaps one day married someone from his own country?”

  “May I sit?” Osman asked. She indicated that he should do so – which obligated her to do the same to avoid the appearance of being rude.

  “I have known Jonathan all my life and Mellesse for nearly as long. I see why he likes you. You are full of vitality and zest. I have noticed that he smiles readily when he is with you.” Osman leaned in conspiratorially. “He was always such a serious boy.”

  She offered a weak smile. Yes, she could imagine what he must have been like.

  “Jonathan is the most remarkable man I have ever met.”

  “How much do you know about him? Did you know he is a nobleman, the s
on of a Ras – how do you say it in Sicilian? – un duca; a duke. He could return home and never want for anything again. He would not have to toil as a common sailor.”

  Why was he telling her this? Was it to make her feel inadequate? Like the merchant’s daughter she was?

  “Then perhaps,” she said, slowly picking her words so as not to give too much offense, “you should remind him of how much he is missed at home.”

  “I have told him, and Jonathan does not wish to leave Sicily. He is stubborn, as well as serious. That is why I’m here to see you.”

  “I think you overestimate my influence. Jonathan is a man who knows his own mind.”

  “He is a widower, you know that, don’t you?”

  Morwena reached for the warehouse key and fiddled with it to occupy her hands.

  “I know he loved Mellesse and his daughters very much,” she answered.

  “How much do you know about them?”

  “He has told me a little.”

  “Do you know their names? His daughters? Do you know how Belkis would sing songs, Debre was a scholar like her father, Hagos was the sweetest little girl you could know.”

  Osman’s look was not accusatory, rather it was a matter of fact. But it was all too much. Morwena put the key on the table and kept her head averted. She would not cry in front of this man. She marshaled the remaining ounce of control she possessed and prayed it was enough.

  “Jonathan grieves,” she said. “He misses them dreadfully – don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I’ve considered that if he could have one miracle granted in his life it would be for his wife and children to be restored to him – alive and whole?” Morwena swallowed and lowered her voice, ashamed that she had allowed her passion to get ahead of her.

  “Don’t you think that every time he feels any kind of tenderness toward me that he thinks of Mellesse? If we were to...” She shook her ahead. “I get ahead of myself.”

  “Go on,” Osman encouraged.

  “I see no other way forward. I love him... I love him with every breath I take... I love him – enough to let him go.”