The slaves were whipped toward several large posts driven deep in the sand and set with heavy metal rings. Another half-dozen well-made males were already shackled there. At some distance a rabble of other slaves, ranging from old to young and including some women, huddled in a rope pen. A fat bearded man took charge of the newcomers and shouted at them, gesturing toward an anvil. They shuffled forward, and the hemp at their necks was replaced by a heavy metal wristband, closed by a bolt pounded home with a great hammer on the anvil. Each shackle carried a length of chain. Thus separated, they were chained to the posts. There was no awning for the slaves. They sat in the heat, drooping. A boy came over with a bucket from the nearby oasis. The water was hot and brackish, but each gulped their share from the ewer.
Ian dozed, fevered dreams of England tumbling in his head. As the sun dropped below the horizon, the caravan began to murmur. Lamps flickered in the beautiful tent. Ian could see a form moving inside, a particularly lithe female form.
As the twilight deepened, the flap of the tent opened and a woman emerged. Immediately stares from every part of the caravan camp converged upon her. And what was more natural? She walked with hips thrust out, long legs creamy white emerging from an almost translucent skirt in dusky orange, slit to her hip. Ian had never seen a more shapely leg. Her torso was both covered and revealed by an X of cloth that covered her breasts and bared her belly. Around her neck was a collar six inches wide made of long cylindrical beads of crystal, jet, and lapis lazuli that matched the earrings that dripped from her ears.
It was her face that hypnotized. Her nose was long, straight, her lips full in a small mouth. She had a delicate, pointed chin. But her most striking features were her eyes. They were black, as far as he could tell in the dim light, and outlined in kohl so that each streaked out to a point on her temples, making her look Eastern and exotic, as though she were not the embodiment of the exotic already. Her cosmetics and her dress were Egyptian, yet the white of her flesh contradicted them. The air around her seemed to vibrate with vitality. The thrust of her hips proclaimed that she knew men; the cold insolence of her eyes said that she was mistress of them.
And so she was. Men bent low before her and pushed their foreheads into the sand. She must certainly be the owner of the caravan and all its contents. The tall, thin figure who had bought Ian walked behind her, his hood now thrown back. He was no slave, for his look was proud. Behind him ran young boys, perhaps fourteen, slaves by the chains on their thin wrists.
She looked about her at the quiescent caravan and issued some peremptory orders Ian did not understand. The tall Arab gestured toward the stakes where the new slaves were tethered and whispered in her ear. Their keeper beat the slaves into appropriate prostration. Raising his eyes, Ian could see her feet, toenails painted with delicate opalescence so that they gleamed even in the twilight, silver rings upon two or three of her toes. An anklet thick with tiny bells tinkled. The scent of cinnamon and something else wafted over him. He had never felt so wretched as when the finely worked leather of her sandals stopped before him. She spoke to the keeper. Her voice was musical, throaty. The keeper poked Ian’s shoulder with his whip, his rough voice humble. Ian struggled to his feet and the keeper urged the others up as well. Then a boy went along the line, jerking their loincloths from them until they were naked before her.
Ian wondered that he could yet flush with all he had endured in the last weeks. The boy stepped up in response to her instruction and squeezed Ian’s testicles. Ian bellowed and slapped him away. The keeper struck Ian about his head with a truncheon and knocked him to his knees, where he crouched in defense. Swearing, the keeper kicked him in the ribs. Ian’s head cleared only slowly. The queenly woman asked the boy a question. The boy responded in the affirmative, then went down the line, apparently testing each man for evidence that he was not a eunuch. The others learned from the results of Ian’s outburst and did not protest. The woman conversed with the tall Arab. She pointed to six of the slaves, including one of the Arabs from his party, the Black, and Ian. Then she drifted away on the slight breeze that breathed hot on Ian’s neck. The tall Arab stalked silently behind her.
As the moon rose, the caravan wakened. Camels were loaded. So were the slaves. Ian was fitted with an enormous pack: a wooden frame tied on with rough hemp straps over his shoulders. His iron bracelet, chafing at his wrist, dangled the chain that could be used to bind him to any handy post. He was just another naked pack animal for the caravan.
The black man was sent to the litter. Ian watched as the mistress of the caravan stepped delicately into the silken interior. The slaves hefted its poles to their shoulders. Camels rose to their feet. The slave keeper whipped his charges into line. Ian staggered under the weight of his pack. He was positioned just in front of the litter by his bearded keeper, while the men not chosen joined the rabble of other slaves at the back of the long line. The caravan started south across a rocky wash toward the open desert, plodding over the sand into the night.
Not a dream but memories filtered into Ian’s consciousness as he woke to daylight leaking under the door of the cabin and the ship making way across the sea again. There had been many months of cruel treatment as the caravan wandered in the desert without a seeming destination. What kind of a caravan did not trade but packed its goods merely as supplies for some circuitous journey? He should have known something was wrong. The fact that they traveled by night, and bandits ran from them, and the strange wounds that always marked the one slave who walked beside the litter—all should have made Ian tremble in fear. And there was the horrible disease that seemed to be killing the poorer stock of slaves. One died every few days of some condition that left them like dried husks in the sand.
A despairing chuckle gurgled in Ian’s throat. How innocent he had been! But even had he realized the import of what he saw, what could he have done? There was no escape so deep in the desert, as he had learned to his cost. Slowly, he had become a beast himself, raw from the leather and rope of the pack, cringing from the blows of his keeper, always thirsty, always seeking relief from the glaring eye of the sun. Perhaps the only sign that he was yet a man had been that he learned rudimentary Arabic from the rough men around him. There was no other choice if he was to avoid a beating. Again the memories assaulted him.
The slave beside the litter was drawn inside the curtains sometimes several times a night. After some weeks, he died one night in his tracks of the strange wounds he bore.
She alighted, her black hair shining silver in the moonlight. Without a glance at the slave’s crumpled body she ordered him dragged away, left in the desert for the vultures and jackals. A camel driver approached and accosted her about the water rations. She growled, low in her throat, and hit him a backhanded blow. It took his head off. Blood spattered. Ian blinked, unbelieving. Was she that strong? Ian struggled for breath. The tall Arab deposited the second body with the first, its head separate, as all others gaped, stunned.
She walked around the palanquin, looking the bearers up and down. She motioned the big Arab away from his pole. The keeper unlocked his chain. Fear made the Arab’s eyes roll white. She glanced ahead to where Ian and the Frenchman and two more Arabs shouldered their packs. Ian stared resolutely at the ground, trying to look unworthy of her attention.
But the keeper cuffed him and commanded him to kneel. The pack was loosened. As in a nightmare he shrugged it off. The keeper spoke sharply and whipped him over to the rear pole vacated by the Arab. His chain was fastened to the ring. Ian and the other three bearers hefted the litter, and the caravan moved off once again. Before they had gone a mile, the hangings opened and a slender arm beckoned to the Arab. The slave shook his head, a low wail growing in his throat. Suddenly all his resistance, all his fear, ceased. The slave crawled up through the hangings. Ian felt his weight descend upon the litter. For many miles, the shifting weights, the movement inside, made it an even more wearisome burden.
A huge crash brought Beth up from her cabin in the
late afternoon, clutching her cloak around her. The day had been filled with confused shouting and Mrs. Pargutter’s moans, punctuated by the flapping rain and thunder of a very persistent storm. Water sluiced on deck everywhere. Wood chips cascaded as a great pole was planed smooth to form a makeshift spar. Men spliced broken rope and hauled bales and crates back to their places. The Captain shouted orders for more sail. Beyond the frantic activity the sun set in some splendor, the ominous black now scudding away to the north. Not a single ship of the convoy was visible.
A cry from aloft made Beth crane her head upward. “Sail-ho, east-sou’east!”
Beth looked around, but she could see nothing from the level of the deck. Tension filled the air, each man turning anxiously to the quarterdeck. The Captain heaved his bulk up the quarterdeck stairs, calling for his glass. They should feel relieved that the convoy converged, yet relief was nowhere evident. Slowly, Beth realized that if they had fallen behind the convoy because of the broken mast, a sail astern might not be welcome news.
The Captain stood braced on the rail, glass to his eye. “Heave the log!” he shouted.
Off to her right a young man sent a small round log over the side attached to a knotted rope. He let the knots slip through his hands as another boy held an hourglass. The second boy shouted, “Stop!” The other pinched the rope. “Five knots, two fathoms.”
Beth watched the Captain search the rigging, then the sky, still filled with wind. “Stud’ s’ls upper and lower!” he shouted. His words were echoed by at least two others, and men scurried up the rigging. Out to the sides like wings, sails flapped into place. The ship lurched ahead.
Beth staggered to the rail as the sail behind them held its distance or even gained.
“ ’E got the weather gauge,” a fearsome-looking man with a scarred cheek and a great long pigtail muttered.
“Cain’t come up afore nightfall,” another, stouter, reassured him. “We’ll crack on.”
“This bucket won’t make eight knots, and he don’t keep her rigged taut, neither.”
This brought only a glum grunt from his partner. Beth searched the horizon again in the gloom to the east. The following ship was definitely closer. What kind of ship could it be? England was at peace with Spain and France. A privateer?
“No doubt those buggers in the sloop will start lookin’ fer stragglers,” the first muttered.
“Better hope.”
The Captain gave incessant orders. Beth stood now on the starboard deck in the waist as discreetly as she could and tried to be small enough to be out of everyone’s way. She did not want to be stifled below deck in this hour of the ship’s need, though there was nothing she could do to help. She concentrated on the dark shape in the gathering gloom so hard she yelped when Mr. Rufford’s bass rumble sounded almost in her ear.
“What’s toward?” he asked.
“Oh my!” Beth held her palm to her breast. “It’s you.”
He stared into the darkness astern. The chasing ship was hardly visible.
“That boat appeared about an hour ago. The crew seemed quite concerned.” He glanced at her and lifted one brow. She chuffed in annoyance. “Very well. We lost a spar in the storm. Which you must have known, because who could ever sleep through such a din? We fell behind. And the convoy is scattered, so we’re entirely without protection at the moment.”
“I can see,” he said, again peering aft.
He couldn’t possibly see, since it was quite dark. “Well, you may not have noticed the confusion. Things are, as seamen say, all ahoo. No one seems to catch the Captain’s orders, and they don’t respect them, either. And the other ship quite clearly has the . . . the weather gauge.”
“Our chaser is more organized.” He pointed at the shadow against the dark of the east.
No one could make out anything there now, Beth thought.
“Have they said what she is?”
“No,” Beth said. “How could they?”
“The Captain knows, for he has a glass and he is cracking on as best he can even after dark.” He looked up. “The damn fool hasn’t doused his running lights. Maybe he is waiting until right before he wears the ship.”
“Wears?” Beth asked.
“Turns it by setting it into the wind. It backs around instead of tacking. He’ll wait until after it is true dark, then set out in a new direction to see if he can lose our chaser.”
“Could it not be a friendly boat?” Beth asked in a small voice.
The tension in his body as he gripped the rail answered her even before he said, “She’s a xebec by the set of her sails, likely a Barbary ship, or a Turk.”
Beth lost her assurance that he couldn’t see the vessel. “A pirate, then?”
“Yes.” The words were torn from tight lips. He glanced up at the sails of their own frigate. “No foretopgallant, no royals. He could make more sail.”
“Perhaps he thinks he’ll break another mast. . . .”
“No time for caution.” Rufford whirled and stalked up the ladder right into the Captain’s sacred domain. Rough words ensued, ending in Rufford being escorted off the quarterdeck.
“Keep yourself to yourself, sir,” the first mate muttered, “or you’ll be locked in irons.”
“Fool!”
“Aye, but ’e’s Captain nonetheless,” the first mate said, low, and retreated.
“He means to try to outrun her, but he sets his sails timidly,” Rufford said in a flat voice. “He thinks he can make the protection of the sloop before she carries us. He’s sure it is on its way back to collect us. That is why he leaves his lights on, and plans no evasive maneuver.”
Beth caught her breath. “You don’t think it is possible?”
He glanced at her and hardened. “Perhaps.”
“A pleasant lie but probably not useful,” she remarked. “In case you don’t think I know what that might mean, I do. And since I am nowhere near pretty enough to grace a first-rate seraglio, it might be relatively unpleasant.”
Her bluntness must have startled him, for he looked sharply at her.
“What are we to do, then?” she asked, prompting.
He straightened. “They will not sink us. They do not mean to see our cargo at the bottom of the sea. They’ll try to board. Our guns are not near those of our sloop-protector—carronades fit only for close range and even then hardly accurate. We’ll have to let them close with us to fire them. If they manage to board, we might repel them, if these bastards will fight.” He looked his apology for the profanity.
“Then let us hope these bastards will fight,” she returned. “They seem hardened enough, but they are only merchant seamen. One can never tell what is in a man’s heart. Will he fight if he is not led?” She looked pointedly up at him.
“You already know my opinion of Tindly.”
“There must be a remedy for that. . . .” Let him make of it what he would.
He peered around. “They have seen action. Look at them. Eager. Thank God pirates are willing to fight at night. There may still be hope.”
What did he mean? Their chances must surely be much better if the pirates did not engage them at night. He turned again to her. “We will put you females into the hold. You may escape the second-rate seraglio yet, ma’am.” He smiled, tightly. That was his resolution again.
“Poor Mrs. Pargutter! Surely we do not have to take such measures yet.”
“Battles at sea are damnably slow, Miss Rochewell. They will not catch us for hours.”
Beth vowed she would not be clapped into the hold to await her fate. There must be some more active role she could play to be of use.
Something else occurred to her. She looked up at Rufford. He might be killed in the battle that was coming. She might be killed or worse. To have all the possibilities of life twisted off at the root so suddenly seemed . . . unfair. Mr. Rufford might never live to see the sorrow in his eyes quenched by a renewed love of life. And she . . . she would never even have been kissed.
&n
bsp; Five
For the next hours Ian watched the pirate corsair close on them with the girl at his side. Their Captain’s orders were timid and contrary, causing havoc on deck. That damned incompetent would be the death of them. Ian swore he would not be taken slave again. Since suicide was denied him, he must fight to the last drop of his blood.
“Does he want them to board us?” he muttered to Miss Rochewell as they leaned over the railing, craning to see. “If he will not crack on, why does he not wear and give them a broadside? We are in range, surely.” The crews were ready at their guns. Carronades required only two men to fight them, unlike the longer cannons, which took eight. Merchant ships carried far fewer men than a Navy vessel or a pirate.
The girl started as the hands brought up a clanking batch of sabers and pikes. “The Captain certainly thinks we will be boarded,” she observed with a creditable imitation of calm.
No weapon was offered to Ian, but he could rectify that lapse once the fighting started. The hands hoisted a net of ropes above the frigate’s waist.
“What thing is this?” Miss Rochewell cried.
“It protects the deck from splinters.” It was no good to minimize the danger, and she did not seem to be a female who wanted lies. “The pirates will try to take out our rigging with their cannon instead of sinking the ship.”
She gulped and nodded. “I suppose you mean very great splinters.”
“I have seen them two-foot-long and more.”
“So you have experience of battle at sea?”
He tried to keep his voice flat. “And of the unhappy issue of losing such a battle.”
At last the order came: “Wear ship! Prepare the starboard guns.”
“You must go below.” He hallooed the first mate and explained his plan for the women.
“I’ll see to Mrs. Pargutter and Jenny. You are needed here.” But she did not turn to go. She looked up at him for a long moment with those luminous eyes. She was afraid, and yet she wanted something.
Susan Squires - [Companion Vampires 0] Page 6
