Bivens muttered, “Oh my…what…?”
This time, half the oarsmen were in the process of rising when the lieutenant rebuked them softly. “Down, I say.”
But it was hard even for Falconer to remain seated. For arrayed across the southwestern horizon was not the single vessel that had been the agreement.
Admiral La Rue had arrived with an armada.
The sea’s horizon boiled with sails.
Bivens muttered, “How many do you reckon?”
Falconer shook his head. Forty, fifty, sixty, the number did not matter. Too many for one lonely merchant ship, no matter how well armed or manned, to fend off. “Take note of how they sail.”
Bivens set one knee upon the gunnel and steadied the glass on his leg. “Tell me what I see.”
“They are all clustered together. They will split and move in two different arms, like the claws of an attacking beast,” Falconer explained.
All the longboat’s crew were watching him. Bivens asked, “You have faced such an attack before?”
“Three times. It’s a maneuver designed for men on horseback and camel, or so I was told. But it works well enough upon the open sea. Especially when the wind is calm enough to give smaller boats with oarsmen an advantage.”
The coxswain asked, “Shall we start rowing back, sir?”
“Hold hard there,” Bivens ordered. Then to Falconer, “What of their armament?”
“Most will have nothing more than four-pound chasers,” Falconer replied, naming the smallest shipboard cannon, normally used only as bow guns and stern guns. “Their hulls are full of dry rot and worms. Their bottoms have never been beached and scrubbed. A heavier gun would blow them apart.”
The coxswain complained, “Begging your pardon, Lieutenant. But me and the lads, we’d hate to sit here and let our shipmates handle such as these without us.”
“Hold fast.” But this time Bivens lowered his telescope and spoke warmly. “If there is any risk of attack, I’ll give the order for us to return.”
“Risk? Sir, have a gander at—”
A cannon fired from a ship behind them. One shot that compressed the air where they rolled upon the waves.
“That’s the signal,” Falconer said.
Bivens worried, “Harkness left it too long, it seems to me.”
“Harkness did correctly,” Falconer replied. “He had to get them close. And La Rue needed to reveal his ships as being on the attack.”
As though in confirmation of Falconer’s words, the Arab vessels released a furious volley. The smaller guns sounded an octave higher than the merchant ship’s cannon. A cloud of smoke rose and dispersed in the wind.
Bivens returned his attention to the sea and demanded fretfully, “Where’s the response?”
“Response from who, sir?” the coxswain demanded.
At that moment, thunder exploded from a clear blue sky.
The English vessel had used the same ruse as their longboat, sailing straight out of the sun and thus masking its appearance from the attackers bearing down on the merchant ship. Captain Clovis had also positioned himself so that his ship could use every ounce of speed the morning wind would grant him.
The English vessel passed within two lengths of their longboat, dwarfing them in the process. The portals on all three gun decks were open. The dark barrels protruded like vicious teeth. Every ounce of sail was open and filled. The bow cleaved as deep as a wooden ax. The rigging was filled with sailors, and the aft deck swarmed with the ship’s contingent of marines.
Captain Clovis appeared on the lee side of the quarterdeck. He shouted down to Falconer’s longboat, “Top of the morning, sir!”
“You are an answer to fervent prayers, sir!” Falconer called up.
Clovis had a laugh far too large for his diminutive body. Nor did he require a speaker horn for his voice to cover that distance. “I have been called many things, sir. But this is a new one for me!”
A voice from the crow’s nest cried, “The nasties are coming about, sir!”
“Five points to starboard,” Clovis roared. Then to Falconer, “Hold where you are, gents! I must give chase and try to capture those I can before they make harbor!”
Chapter 25
Despite the fact that all the Arab vessels scrambled safely back to port, Clovis was in fine fettle when he returned to where the longboat drifted upon high seas. Once Falconer’s vessel was lashed to the side of the battleship and they had come aboard, Clovis ignored Soap’s discomfort at being seated among the ship’s officers, treating them all as welcome guests. Over a meal of roast goat and dates, Clovis described how a single Arab vessel, the largest, had broken out of the prince’s standard and objected most strenuously at the British frigate’s attack.
The admiral’s vizier had shouted angrily that all the other boats had merely been an honorary escort. Clovis and his lieutenants laughed over how they had responded in kind, that the British warship was simply escorting the merchant vessel. They had left the vizier in negotiations with Harkness and Reginald Langston. The final exchange of signal flags between Clovis and Harkness had contained three messages. First, that neither hostage was on board the Arab vessel. Second, that Harkness and Reginald congratulated Falconer on being correct in his forecast. And third, all the ship’s company wished them godspeed.
After dinner, Clovis sailed them back to a point just over the horizon from the ruined desert city, now the caravanserai. Falconer and his men were to be rowed ashore, and the coxswain was to rendezvous the longboat with Clovis, again beyond the horizon. Clovis would then tow the longboat back to Harkness, who remained stationed near the Tunis port.
Falconer was accompanied by Soap and Bernard Lemi, plus two men from the British vessel. Clovis’s men were a villainous pair, as massive as temple pillars and battle scarred. Each went by a single name only. The duncolored Arab with one milky eye was Wadi. The dark African with tribal scars on his cheeks and forehead was Nebo. Both, Clovis related, had escaped from slavery.
Clovis had told Falconer of both men when they initially met and discussed Falconer’s plan. A favorite British naval watering hole off the west African coast was found in the Cape Verde Islands, where slaves worked on vast Portuguese plantations. Like a number of naval officers who had witnessed the effects of slavery firsthand, Captain Clovis loathed the evil trade in human flesh. Whenever visiting Cape Verde, Clovis anchored in a small, uninhabited inlet on the main island’s southern coast. Nine times he had been rewarded, rescuing escaping slaves who swam out to his vessel. All had been sworn into service; it was a tradition in the British navy that any man, regardless of race, who served out a full term was granted citizenship. Seven now served with navy allies skippering other vessels.
As soon as Wadi and Nebo had heard of Falconer’s plan, they had pleaded for the chance to come along.
The small group made landfall in the breach between sunset and moonrise. The sea was inky black, and the waves crashed in palest silver. Falconer gripped the side gunnels as they approached the ghostly shore, but the oarsmen knew their business and expertly handled the longboat through the currents. They rode a rush of foam and then the keel scraped against the sand. Instantly Falconer leapt over the side, his trouser legs hiked above his knees and boots slung over his shoulder with his pack. The four other men followed his lead and hustled onto shore.
They clambered to a rise forty paces inland. From there they watched as the longboat slipped back into the dark waters. Bivens offered them a final wave, and was gone.
Clovis had proven to be a wily skipper, for in his hold had been stored a small Arab tent and several djellabas. That he possessed these robes used by the local desert tribesmen obviously meant he previously had sent teams ashore on information-gathering missions.
They walked a league inland and made camp for the night. Falconer, unaccustomed to the desert tent’s design, watched with Soap and Bernard Lemi as the two former slaves made fast the guide ropes. The tent was pegged in a c
ross-tier fashion, and then the two men hauled upon the front ropes and the tent rose as gracefully as a sail. They lashed the two final ropes into place, and by the time the moon rose to bleach the surrounding desert silver, all was done.
Falconer found himself so utterly exhausted he made no protest as the two Africans asked to proceed into the caravanserai alone. He simply asked how much gold they required.
Both of Clovis’s men squinted hard at Falconer. “Gold?” the African said.
“It is what we carry. English sovereigns.”
Nebo and Wadi exchanged looks before one said, “Three guineas, and we will have silver when we return.”
Falconer handed them four. Soap cast him a glance of consternation, clearly concerned that these strangers might never return.
Falconer sank down upon the tent’s flooring, feeling the pebbles beneath his blanket. Concern over Matt and the coming venture and Amelia Henning’s words had disturbed his sleep every night since leaving Marseilles. He listened a moment to Soap and Bernard speaking softly outside the tent, released a single breath, and was gone.
Hours later, he awoke from a dream that a bullet was slowly grinding its way into his rib.
Falconer shifted and groaned. He had not moved since falling asleep, and a stone beneath his chest had bruised him deeply. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Desert sunlight lanced through a sliver of space between the tent flaps. Soap slept to one side, Wadi snored softly on the other. Falconer grabbed his boots and crawled from the tent.
The desert light temporarily blinded him. He rubbed his eyes and rose slowly to his feet. The smell of woodsmoke drifted in the still air. He turned his back to the sun. On the western side, in the tent’s long morning shadow, a fire burned. The African known as Nebo rose from his crouch and offered Falconer a metal cup shaped like a tulip bloom. From it came the heady scent of sweet mint tea.
“Thank you.” Falconer sipped and sighed at the pungent flavor and the rush of memories. With his free hand he accepted the round desert flatbread. The unleavened bread lasted far longer than western-style loaves, and was more easily packed. The fact that it was relatively tasteless was overcome by swallows of the sweet tea.
Then he heard a grunt. Falconer shifted about and found himself facing four camels and two mules. The nearest camel chewed its cud in a sideways manner and eyed him calmly.
Falconer eased himself down beside Bernard, and said to the African, “You did well.”
Nebo used a charred cloth to lift the long-stemmed teapot from the fire. “More?”
“Please.” Falconer watched as he reached across the fire and refilled Falconer’s cup. “Was there any trouble?”
“We know these people and their tongue.” Nebo’s accent was very thick and his grammar curious, but he was easily understood. “We pay in gold. There no trouble.”
Bernard Lemi gestured to the east, where the caravanserai’s crumbling towers cut silhouettes from the sunrise. “Will they accept us as genuine?”
Falconer nodded thanks to an offer of yet more tea. “We are not the only foreigners who come looking for slaves.”
“You have traveled here before?”
“Not this area.” Falconer took a slow and deliberate sip. “Somaliland.”
“That is where?”
“Indian Ocean. By Yemen.”
“These waters I do not know.” Nebo refilled Bernard’s cup and asked the banker, “You have been here?”
“Never in the desert.” Bernard blew on the hot tea. “I’m sorry, but I know nothing of this world.”
Nebo nodded once in acceptance of the man’s admission. “Drink much tea. The desert drinks from you.”
Falconer spotted two leather bags used as tethers for the pack mules. One of the beasts shifted over to a meager clump of grass. The bag clinked, and Falconer winced at the sound.
Nebo saw Falconer’s grimace and responded, “Slavers must carry slave chains.”
Falconer did not want the man to think he criticized the man’s purchase, so he merely repeated, “You did well.”
Nebo refilled his own cup and slurped his tea in the desert fashion, sucking off the top layer. Then, “We go to rescue two children, it is so?”
“One child, a girl of nine, and one man who is about twenty-seven.”
“These captives, they are family?”
“We are not related.”
Nebo sipped thoughtfully. Falconer recognized the African courtesy of not asking further direct questions. If a man chose to respond to what was not asked, it was his decision. No insult was made because the question was never voiced. But this man was an ally who was also risking his life. So Falconer said, “I carry the great shame of having once been a slaver.”
“Ah.” It was not a word so much as a deep sigh.
“Now I am committed to helping those in chains wherever and whenever I can.”
“This is good, your oath.” Another careful sip. “You made this promise why?”
That was a more difficult one. “My freedom was freely given. I seek now only to serve.”
The forehead crinkled in confusion. “You in need of freedom?”
“Yes, I was a slave to sin, to evil. Now I seek to serve my Savior. The one who freed me.”
“I do not know this word. Savior.”
“You serve on a British vessel and you have never heard of Jesus Christ?”
“Ah. The name. Yes.” The tribal scars deepened into caverns as he smiled. “The lieutenant, he cries the name very loud when angry.”
“That is not how I choose to speak my Lord’s name.”
“No.” Another thoughtful sip. “I think I would like to know more of this mystery. What do you call it?”
“Salvation.”
The African shrugged. “The power that changes slaver into man who rescues slaves. This is great power indeed. You will speak to me of this, yes?”
“I would count it an honor.”
Nebo grunted. It was another sound drawn from Falconer’s past, a proud man who rarely uses an actual word for thanks. “How are you called?”
The African already knew his name. The exchange was meant to mark them now as true allies. “I am called Falconer. And you are Nebo.”
Another smile came and went in the strengthening day. “Already I be glad I make this voyage.”
They mounted the camels and set off in the late morning. At first the desert was kind to them, as far as a waterless waste of heat and sand could be kind. A fresh wind blew off the ocean, strong enough to cool their coastal road.
But less than an hour later the wind turned southerly and strengthened, and the desert’s other face was revealed.
The dust struck them with brutal force. Wadi showed them how to wrap a burnoose about their heads, such that the leading edge formed a shield for their eyes.
Their plan had been to allow most of the local merchants to depart before them. Moving more swiftly than the lumbering caravans, they intended to sidle up from behind and meld into the road traffic’s rhythm, arriving in Tunis in one great mass. Instead, the rising wind blanketed the ruined town such that only one of the four towers was visible at all. The houses and corrals and most of the outer wall were lost to the swirling golden cloud. Falconer could hear shouting voices and bleating animals, but saw no one.
Nebo sidled his camel up beside Falconer. “The merchants wait out storm.”
“Should we?”
Nebo used his quirt, a supple stick as long as his arm and wrapped in beaded leather, to point up to where Wadi led the way. “He will say if storm harm camels.”
“Your friend does not speak much.”
“He was born slave. As boy, he must sing. Day after day. Now he hates all words. I am his friend because I speak for him.”
The wind grew steadily and lashed at them. The pack mules brayed a constant protest against the stinging dust. The camels snorted and plodded in a sameness Falconer felt in his very bones. He had never been good with horses and had ridden a c
amel only once before. His lower back and thighs felt on fire.
Bernard Lemi sidled to Falconer’s right. He uncorked his waterskin and swilled his mouth so that he could ask, “How much further?”
In truth, Falconer had no idea. But Bernard needed reassuring. “Not long.”
“This storm is worse than I had ever imagined.”
Nebo closed the distance behind them, while Soap moved in on Falconer’s left. Falconer knew there was greater risk to them being so tightly clustered. Although not much. The dust was so thick he could not see the camel’s footpads.
Nebo said, “This is not such bad wind.”
Bernard twisted in his saddle, but in the wrong direction, for the dust struck his unprotected eyes. He twisted back and used the burnoose’s edge to clear his vision. “You must be telling tales!”
Falconer said, “Further into the desert, storms rise that can strip a man’s bones in half a day.”
Wadi glanced back, as though in confirmation, but said nothing.
Soap’s voice was dry and cracked. “I smell a storm brewing out to sea.”
Falconer grunted. “I doubt it will strike here.”
Soap knew their plan well enough to fret, “What if it does? Rain will put paid to all our plans, it will.”
Nebo shook his head. “The rain passes out to sea. Not for years does this land see rain.”
Bernard broke in, “Why can’t we stop?”
Much as Falconer wanted the very same thing, he replied, “Because this storm is our ally.”
“Impossible!”
“Look at those hills.” Falconer pointed to his right. A brief clearing of the dust storm revealed steep cliffs that rose and fell in ocher waves. Eons of wind had blasted peculiar caves and narrow defiles. “This is a breeding ground for bandits.”
This time, Falconer was certain Wadi’s glance was agreement. He went on, “Desert tribes prey on smaller parties like ours. But we are hidden from them. The wind and dust are our best shield.”
Falconer's Quest Page 17
