Broken Wing

by Judith James

  The summer passed without any viable opportunity for escape, and they resigned themselves to another winter campaign. Murad Reis kept his favorites richly supplied with gold, horses, and women, and Jacques Valmont, who was particularly fond of women, availed himself of all three. He no longer expected Gabriel to share his interest in wenching, but was somewhat surprised that he seemed to have no interest in fornicating with anyone at all. He decided that he might have been mistaken about St. Croix. As attractive as he might seem to either sex, he himself seemed attracted to neither. If not for his lithe and muscular frame, he might have been a eunuch. It was certain, in any case, that he was an enigma.

  They spent the rest of the year on campaign, protecting caravans, punishing the enemies of the Dey, and skirmishing with the enemies of the sultan, traveling back and forth from Algiers to Morocco and from one commission to the next, until they lost track of who they were fighting or why. It no longer mattered to them as long as they were paid. Gabriel had seen so much brutality and death that it no longer seemed real to him. Tragic scenes of mayhem and cruelty, the disjointed scrambling and hacking, the cursing and pleading and agonized screams, it had all taken on a cartoonish quality, and the dead and dying reminded him of nothing more than puppets with their wires cut, sprawled in ungainly heaps upon the ground.

  The spring of 1802 found them in the Atlas Mountains again, fighting for their lives. Several local chieftains, organized, armed, and led by Moroccan insurgents based in Fez, had caught them in a coordinated pincer attack, trapping them in a steep defile with no avenue of retreat. Their captain, guilty of a gross underestimation of his enemy’s ferocity, organization, and numbers, paid for it with his life. The vanguard had been ambushed and slaughtered, and the rearguard was struggling to join the caravan, paying dearly in blood and death each step of the way.

  The battle had raged, savage and unchecked, for over three hours, coalescing into a slashing, hacking melee. Gabriel was fighting off two attackers, swinging with his Spanish blade and parrying with his short sword. A mounted Berber, screaming curses, charged him from the rear, driving his sword straight at the back of his neck. Valmont swung round to deflect it. Metal screamed against metal and sparks flew. Drawing back his sword, he slashed at the horseman’s legs. The Berber swung his sword down as Valmont thrust up, catching him in the throat and spilling him from his horse. He floated to the ground, his snowy robes billowing, like a cloud.

  Gabriel shouted a warning, and the chevalier jumped back, barely dodging a stroke that would have cut him in half. They edged closer together, fighting back to back, surrounded by a circle of mutilated, dead, and dying. Still they kept coming. We die here today, Gabriel thought, as the sun began its quick and early descent behind the mountains. The ebb and flow of the battle had pushed them closer to their pack animals when he saw an opening. Grabbing the chevalier by the sleeve, he jerked him in among the panicked animals, and began slaughtering the camels, forming a bulwark around them.

  Seeing what he was about, those who still survived from the rearguard and the flanks did their best to join him. Reorganized, they rallied, some of them holding the barricade while others rifled frantically through packs and supplies, searching for more ammunition, and praise Allah, finding it. Muskets were loaded, shots rang out, and men spun through the air in lazy pirouettes to fall broken on the ground.

  A bloody dawn found them alone in a silent field of corpses. The mountain raiders had vanished, leaving only their dead behind. The only things that moved were the ungainly vultures that hopped and strutted, necks bent and twisted as they pecked and tore at cloth, and leather, and flesh. Of a hundred-man caravan, only seventeen mercenaries and a few horses were left alive.

  Ashen-faced, chest heaving, covered in gore, Valmont grimaced as he surveyed the carnage. Sighing, he threw an arm around Gabriel’s shoulders and gave him a slight hug. “We need to leave this godforsaken place, Gabriel,” he rasped. “Soon, before there’s nothing human left in either one of us.”

  It was decided. No matter the risk, no matter the consequence, they would make good their escape before another summer had passed.

  Limping into Algiers in early April, they were greeted with the news that a treaty had been signed in March, at Amiens, between France, England, Holland, and Spain. It was a matter of indifference to Gabriel, as were most things these days. His unexpected encounter with de Sevigny had changed him. That, and the nightmare existence he’d known over the past eighteen months as a mercenary, had tempered him in the same way fire and forge tempered steel, burning away everything extraneous to survival. It had honed him into something cold, hard, and deadly. The old Gabriel, the one who knew fear and pity, love and sorrow, had been immolated in the heat of battle, hatred, and revenge. No trace of the eager young lover, the curious scholar, or the sensitive romantic remained.

  Gabriel’s training in combat, sailing, and command served him well with Murad Reis. As they launched their summer campaign, he found himself promoted to second in command aboard the Reis’s flagship. Early June saw them roving the Ionian Sea between Italy and Greece, after a particularly lucrative sweep of the eastern Mediterranean. They had already sent two prize crews hurrying back to Algiers, when they chanced upon a small Spanish trader heading for home. Too wily to be taken in by false colors and hearty greetings, her captain raised sail and tried to flee, but hampered by strong headwinds and burdened with a full hold, he was caught within the hour. A ferocious battle ensued in which a dozen Spaniards and twenty corsairs were killed, but inevitably, overwhelmed by superior numbers and firepower, the Spanish ship was taken.

  Sullen and defiant, the survivors were stripped down to their drawers, disarmed, and herded roughly to the upper deck where they were held under guard, chastened with whip and cudgel if they dared to move or speak. Murad Reis conferred with his lieutenants. The corsair hold was full, there was no more room for cargo or slaves, and the merchantman’s sister ship had been spotted slipping into a cove to the north. The Reis ordered Gabriel to take command of a prize crew, giving him three other renegados, ten Algerians, and orders to make haste for Algiers. Gabriel caught Valmont’s eyes, signaling him to join them, and amidst the bustle of men and movement, and the excitement of a new chase, no one thought to question it.

  An hour later Gabriel sat at the Spanish captain’s table, his feet on the desk, a study in arrogance and cruelty. Valmont stood to one side of him, paring his fingernails with a wicked dagger, looking up with mild boredom and distaste as two of the Algerian corsairs kicked open the door and threw the battered captain down at his feet. Still defiant, the young captain, with more courage than sense, pushed himself up off the floor and spat in Gabriel’s direction, causing the corsairs to roar and jerk him around by his hair. Throwing him back to the ground, they lashed him vigorously with the short leather straps they carried at their sides.

  Interrupting with a slight cough, Gabriel waved his fingers, and motioned the men to step away. “That really wasn’t wise, signor. It serves no purpose other than to annoy,” he said mildly, in perfect English.

  The captain’s head snapped up and he examined Gabriel closely. Bronzed skin, dark hair, and the pitiless eyes of a predator, he looked every inch the vicious pirate. It was astonishing to hear a cultured voice and civilized tongue coming from his lips.

  “You understand English? Good. The two gentlemen who escort you do not. You will look down at the floor like a good slave, and speak only when spoken to.”

  The young captain, guilty of all the excessive pride his countrymen were known for, raised his head defiantly. Staring Gabriel full in the face, he spat again, provoking a flurry of punches and kicks and prompting one of the corsairs to declare that he should be severely bastinadoed, then thrown over the side as an example to the rest.

  “No,” Gabriel said decisively in Arabic. “He’s worth gold alive, and nothing dead, and he can give us information about the rest of the crew. Give him a taste of the whip, and I will continue t
o question him.” Already battered, the recalcitrant captain was whipped until he was bloody, then forced to his knees in front of what used to be his desk.

  “I did warn you,” Gabriel said pleasantly. “You bring it upon yourself. Let us try this again, shall we? Keep your head down and your eyes to the floor and listen carefully. It will be best if you show nothing other than fear and respect, although you may be sullen if you feel you must. I am going to assume, by the way you fought, and the way you defy us now, that you are not inclined to a life of slavery. Am I correct? Answer me!”

  “No, signor!” the Spaniard responded, looking up and hastily looking down again as the strap was laid smartly across his shoulders. “I mean, yes. You are correct. I do not wish to be a slave. My family has money. They can pay you a ransom.”

  “How nice for you! But I’m not interested in ransom. I’m interested in your ship. My good friend and I find ourselves weary of these climes and desirous of returning to Europe.” The captain raised his head, startled and excited, a gleam of hope in his eyes. “Recollect yourself, signor!” Gabriel snapped, nodding at the guards who stepped forward and applied the strap again. “Really, Captain,” he sighed, “courage serves best when seasoned with common sense. I require that you use your head. There are thirteen of them, and two of us. If our plan is to succeed, they must not suspect what we’re about.”

  “You will have thirty-five if you wish it,” the captain whispered, head bent submissively and finally, behaving as he ought.

  “We do wish it, Captain. Will you follow my orders exactly?”

  “I will, signor.”

  “Very well. We will continue to interrogate your men. Some of them will be needed to help crew the ship, and will remain above deck. Tell them to be docile and cooperate. The rest, yourself included, will be locked in the hold and shackled. The chevalier, he is the handsome fellow to my left, don’t look at him, will supervise. You will be rude to him, you seem skilled at that, and in the course of chastising you he will leave you a key. Unlock the shackles but have your men continue the appearance of being fettered. Four men will come, two to feed you, and two guards. Your men will start a fight over the food. When the guards step in to restore order, you will subdue them, fighting your way up to the deck where my friend, your other men, and I, will be engaged in subduing the others.”

  “What of our weapons, signor?”

  “There is no way to get them to you without arousing suspicion. You will have to rely on force of numbers. No doubt it will be a circumstance in which your courage will finally prove useful.” They continued to speak a while longer, Gabriel barking out questions and the captain meekly responding, before he was waved away and taken, apparently much chastened, to be locked in the hold.

  Gabriel finished the interrogations while Valmont inspected the ship and the hold, managing to pull aside the three renegados, one British and two Portuguese, and inquire as to whether they would be inclined to return home if the opportunity presented itself. All three confirmed that they would be very much so inclined, and the chevalier encouraged them to pay attention lest such an occasion should arise.

  Later that afternoon, the chevalier checked the prisoners, tugging on a shackle here and there, to make sure they were held tight. The temperamental Spanish captain objected by tugging back. He was hauled up by the hair and punched in the stomach, sinking back to the floor with a moan, and an iron key stuck in the band of his ragged drawers. The rest of the plan unfolded later that night. It went as smoothly as any could have hoped, and was over within twenty minutes.

  The crew’s fury resulted in the deaths of four of the Algerians. The rest were locked in a storeroom. Gabriel’s insistence that the weapons remain under his, and the chevalier‘s control, ensured that the Spaniards couldn’t act on any lingering resentments they might have harbored over their initial treatment. Despite strenuous objections, they pulled in close to the coast and let the six remaining Algerians jump the rail and swim to shore. Four of them had been in the rearguard of the mountain massacre, and neither Gabriel nor Valmont would countenance sending men who had fought shoulder to shoulder with them, against impossible odds, to be sold as Spanish slaves, or hung. They arrived in Barcelona, Spain, midway through June, and were back in Paris by July.

  CHAPTER

  30

  Sarah walked listlessly along the shore. The days were getting shorter now, and dusk was crowding in. The sullen sky was laced with soot-tinted wisps. Leaden pillars of cloud towered on the horizon. The water, thick, gelid, and lashed to a frenzy by the wind, spit wintry foam as it battered the coast. There was ice in it. The weather matched her mood.

  It was November. The Yule would be upon them soon, and Jamie would be home for the holidays in a few more weeks. Next year he would be at Oxford. It should have been a happy time, but it was two years now, almost to the day, since Davey had come home bringing news of Gabriel’s death. Drowned, he said, swept from the deck of the L’Espérance in a heavy gale, while trying to pull another man to safety. She had fainted, the first time she’d ever succumbed to such weakness. The world had gone black, and she had slumped to the ground as Ross and Jamie rushed to support her. Davey had just stood there, dumb with sorrow and stricken with guilt.

  It was a terrible storm. It claimed at least two other ships and a great many lives, Davey told her later. Gabriel could never have survived it. She’d refused to believe it at first, certain that if he were dead she would have known it, felt it somehow, deep within her being. But Davey had been thorough. He had been to all the great slaving capitals, Salé in Morocco, and Tunis, Algiers, and Tripoli along the northern coast. He’d checked with all his contacts, spoken with merchants and traders, every embassy, and even representatives of the Sultan and the Dey. After two years of searching there was no trace of him, no record of him or anyone resembling him having ever been a captive anywhere on the Barbary Coast.

  The world had seemed colorless and grim since then. She’d lost interest in everything around her, spending her days walking along the beach or sitting in her room, arms wrapped around her knees, tears running down her cheeks, cursing the ocean she’d once loved, for stealing him away. They were all worried about her, Ross, and Jamie, and Davey. They didn’t really know, any of them, the depths of the bond between her and Gabriel, how close they’d been, how much they’d shared, though Davey must have guessed. Ross blamed himself for sending him away, Davey blamed himself for taking him, and although she blamed neither of them, she found she had nothing left with which to offer comfort.

  They were adults, but Jamie would be coming in another six weeks, and she refused to abandon him to her grief. She had done so once before, with disastrous results. His visits home had been one of the few bright spots in her life over the past two years. They had grown closer since Gabriel had left, sharing his letters and a special bond, and she always managed to find some semblance of her old self whenever he was with them.

  Between times, Ross kept encouraging her to do something, anything, strewing the breakfast table and her desk with newspapers, invitations, and articles on upcoming lectures and talks. There was a French astronomer she had once been eager to meet, coming to London to give a Royal Society lecture. A friend had written with an invitation to visit her salon, and she’d been wanting to commission a new telescope with a long focus lens.

  Just this past week, Ross had asked her if she couldn’t visit an old acquaintance of his in Hampshire, a half-Irish peer named Killigrew, related to their shipping neighbors in Falmouth. He was ill, it seemed, and interested in selling some of his stud. The earl was a highly successful racehorse breeder, and both Ross and Sarah had talked in the past of crossing Sarah’s stallion and their Arab mares, with English-bred hunters and racers. Ross claimed he hadn’t the time to go, citing urgent business with his shipping interests, and begged Sarah to go in his place. She had as good an eye for horseflesh as he did, and was better at bargaining, besides.

  Well, then, she thought, s
hivering and pulling her shawl tighter, why not go to London? She was sick of sorrow and sick of herself. She was young and alive, and as hard as it was to accept, Gabriel was gone, and he had been for over two years. She owed it to herself and her family to move on. She could travel to London and spend a week or two, attend Monsieur Doucette’s lecture and visit Mary’s salon, and perhaps do a little Christmas shopping. If she left this week, she would have time to visit Ross’s Irish earl on the way, and still be back for Christmas.

  Chilled now, she quickened her pace, striving to warm herself and eager to speak with Ross. He was delighted and deeply relieved to see her taking an interest in something at last. That night at dinner, she felt the first stirrings of excitement as they discussed arrangements for the trip, her plans in London, and the Killigrew stud. Even so, when she went to her room her gaze was drawn to the empty window seat, and tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. Despite her best intentions and all her new resolutions, she cried herself to sleep, and she dreamed of Gabriel.

  She left two days later, accompanied by John Wells, the coachman, and William Towers, one of their senior grooms. Both men were burly ex-soldiers who had served under Ross on campaign, and were as skilled with fists, pistol, or sword, as they were with horses. Ross watched her leave with a satisfied smile. He’d sent ahead to London to open the town house for her, and his lads would make certain no harm befell her on the trip. He smiled as he wondered what she’d make of Killigrew.

  Sarah arrived at the old earl’s estate just before sunset. Located close to Winchester, the house was an impressive stone edifice, perched on a slight rise and surrounded by lush wooded parkland that sloped down to a lazily meandering river. To her left, she could see a great arched roof topping a sizable stable built of dressed stone and surrounded by white fenced paddocks. It was cool for November, and there was a damp metallic taste in the air.