The Sea and the Sand

by Christopher Nicole

  He gazed at Toby in stark horror. ‘Mercy, sir,’ he cried. ‘Oh, mercy.’

  ‘Has Mohammed ben Idris come this way?’ Toby demanded.

  ‘He is inside my house, great lord,’ Abd cried. ‘Inside. With …’ He gulped.

  Toby’s brows drew together. ‘Inside your house?’

  ‘I thought you were dead, great lord,’ Abd claimed.

  Toby pushed him aside and ran into the house, looked left and right, and a terrified woman pointed at the stairs. He ran up them, gained the first floor, burst into a bedchamber, and saw Idris, holding Felicity by the hair as she twisted and fought him, and he forced her towards the divan.

  ‘Idris,’ Toby said.

  Idris turned, his jaw sagging for a moment.

  ‘Toby,’ Felicity shouted. ‘He …’

  Idris swept her round into his arms, holding his dagger against her throat. ‘I ran behind her, McGann,’ he said. ‘Because she is what lies between us. Thanks to you …’ his voice became a snarl, ‘I have lost all. And now my life is forfeit. But you shall not prosper. I shall leave you your wife, McGann, to comfort your bed, lacking her breasts, lacking a nose.’

  Toby stood in the doorway, sucking breath into his lungs. There was no doubt Idris could carry out at least part of his threat before he could reach the man; his left hand held Felicity by the throat, and his right hand, grasping the dagger, was resting against her chin. Toby’s shoulders sagged. But vengeance would have to be abandoned yet again.

  ‘Release her,’ he said. ‘I give you the word of a gentleman that you shall go free.’

  Idris’s Ups drew back in one of his wolfish grins.

  ‘Never,’ Felicity gasped, and sank her teeth into the hand against her face.

  Idris gave a yell of pain, and the dagger slipped from his grasp. Felicity elbowed him in the ribs and burst free, tripping and landing on her hands and knees in the centre of the floor. Idris reached for the dropped knife, and for her at the same time. But Toby was there before him, swinging the scimitar in a vast blow which sent the Moor’s head spinning from his shoulders to crash against the wall. The trunk remained standing it seemed for a full second, before collapsing to the floor.

  ‘Toby!’ Felicity was in his arms.

  ‘No more nightmares,’ he told her. ‘No more nightmares. Only you and me forever.’

  He put his arm round her shoulders to take her down to the street. They arrived at the front door to find the marines placing Abd er Rahman under arrest.

  ‘Halt there, you rascal,’ one of them shouted at Toby, levelling his musket.

  ‘Put up the weapon, soldier,’ Toby told him. ‘I am Lieutenant McGann. And this is my wife.’

  The two men stood to attention, while Abd fell to his knees between them. ‘They mean to hang me, great lord,’ he begged. ‘Have pity.’

  Toby looked at Felicity.

  ‘He made me share his bed,’ she said, her voice soft. ‘But he treated me most kindly, and he certainly saved my life. Because he adores me. I suspect he adores me still. That was hardly a crime, Toby.’

  ‘Let him go,’ Toby told the marines. ‘Of all these people, he is probably the most innocent.’

  *

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Stephen Decatur addressed his assembled captains on the quarterdeck of the USS Constitution. With them were the masters of the ships held by the Algerians, and now released. The war was over, and Yusuf Ah had gratefully paid the indemnity demanded, to prevent the total destruction of his city. ‘I give you Toby and Felicity McGann. You will all know that part of our plan was to create a diversion which would allow Lieutenant McGann to seek his wife, and if possible take her to safety. But gentlemen, Lieutenant and Mrs McGann themselves created the diversion, which so preoccupied Mohammed ben Idris that he neglected to take any proper means against our approach. They are to be congratulated on the parts they played in making our victory an easy one. So, may I say, Felicity, welcome home. And may you never be forced to wander again.’

  ‘I thank you, Stephen, on behalf of us both,’ Toby said. ‘Be sure that we shall never wander again, either of us.’

  Decatur frowned. ‘That sounds a very final statement from you, Toby.’

  ‘It is, Stephen. Much as I love this life, I love my wife more. I shall not leave the farm again without her at my side.’

  ‘Oh, Toby.’ Felicity squeezed his hand. ‘Are you sure that is what you want?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ he said. ‘These last few weeks have taught me that much. But gentlemen, if I may, I would like to give you a toast. To the United States Navy, and its future.’

  ‘The United States Navy,’ the officers said, raising their glasses.

  Toby glanced at the Royal Navy captain seated beside him. The British frigate had come upon them soon after the surrender of Algiers, and its officers had been invited to join in their celebration. ‘Will you not drink that toast, sir?’

  ‘I shall, Mr McGann, with reservations,’ the Englishman said. He looked at the smoke pall which still clung to the southern horizon. ‘You have destroyed an entire city, sir, to make a point.’

  ‘A point?’ Toby cried. ‘Why, have we not also secured the release of several British captives?’

  ‘A few,’ the captain agreed. ‘And some Americans as well. At the cost of how many innocent lives?’

  ‘There are no innocent lives in Algiers,’ growled one of the American officers just released. ‘There is no one in that city does not share in the profits from their piracy.’

  ‘I am sure there are, sir,’ the Englishman insisted. ‘And now there are a host of innocent deaths, as well.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that the matter could have been handled differently?’ Toby demanded.

  ‘Indeed, sir, I am suggesting that the orders given by the government of the United States in this matter, for I have no doubt that Captain Decatur was but carrying out his orders, were that Algiers should be bombarded into surrender, were scarcely those of a civilised power. Such an infamous and indiscriminate massacre has not been carried out for over a hundred years with such deliberate forethought.’

  ‘Which is why the Algerians have grown so arrogant, and so destructive,’ Toby pointed out.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Decatur said, ‘I will have no quarrels on this day. Our guest is perfectly correct in assuming that I carried out my orders, as I am sure that he will always carry out his orders. As to the correctness of such order, every man is entitled to his own opinion. But in this regard, I will give you another toast, one to which I am positive our English friend will have no difficulty in raising his glass.’ He stood up. ‘Gentlemen, I drink to my country. In her dealings with other nations, may she always be right. But my country, right or wrong.’

  *

  The farm prospered, as did the nation, as world trade boomed following the final defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo, only a fortnight after Decatur’s victory at Algiers. A victory which, followed by similar bombardments of Tunis and Tripoli, secured for American vessels the freedom of the Mediterranean. While the British, for all their criticism of American action in 1815, the very next year found it necessary to send a fleet of their own to bombard Algiers for the protection of the Union Jack.

  The McGanns also prospered. Toby had indeed realised that however much he loved the Navy, he loved Felicity more, and was at last happy. Because they had experienced so much together, and at the end had fought, shoulder to shoulder, they had achieved a mutual rapport given to few, whatever their experiences. But the Navy was still in the McGann blood, and in early April 1820, Toby himself accompanied twelve-year-old Stephen to Baltimore, to see him taken on as a midshipman and continue the family tradition. It was in Baltimore that he met Thomas McDonough, now one of the senior captains.

  ‘Toby McGann, by God,’ McDonough cried, squeezing his friend’s hand. ‘But it is good to see you, even on so sad an occasion. You have come for the funeral?’

  Toby frowned. ‘The funeral? Whose funeral?’

 
‘Why, Stephen Decatur’s.’

  ‘Decatur is dead? But how? My God, he can only have been forty.’

  ‘Hardly more,’ McDonough agreed. ‘You mean you did not know? Well, how could you, buried away on that farm; it only happened a fortnight ago.’

  ‘What happened?’ Toby shouted. ‘Disease?’

  ‘A bullet, fired by James Barron.’

  Toby stared at him, aghast.

  ‘You’ll remember that it was mainly on Stephen’s testimony that Barron was suspended from duty, back in 1807,’ McDonough explained. ‘He went off to fight for the French, but when Napoleon finally abdicated, he returned here and sought reinstatement and a command, but was refused. I suppose this rankled. And to make matters worse for him, Stephen remained the hero of the hour, for his triumph at Algiers. You may believe that strenuous efforts were made to prevent them from meeting one another, but on 20 March last, at a dinner, both men happened to be present, and Barron accused Stephen, before witnesses, of bearing false witness against him at his court martial.’

  ‘My God,’ Toby muttered. ‘But … that was no cause for a death, surely?’

  ‘There was no necessity for a duel, even,’ McDonough said bitterly. ‘Everyone knew that Barron had spoken from sheer spite, and indeed, all the senior captains attempted to quash the business. But Stephen would fight. You know he never turned his back on an enemy in his life. What he did not know,’ McDonough sighed, ‘was that Barron had been practising for all of those thirteen years, and had become a crack shot. Yet he struck him in the thigh before being cut down himself.’

  ‘My God,’ Toby said again. ‘The best officer in the fleet. With respect, Tom.’

  ‘No offence taken. I agree with you.’

  ‘And Barron?’

  ‘Oh, he will recover from his wound, I would say. He will be remembered.’

  ‘As the man who killed Stephan Decatur. There’s immortality for you. Tom, when will this nation of ours, and this service of ours, grow to maturity?’

  McDonough smiled. ‘Why, never, I trust, Toby. And I think Stephen would agree with that. Nations, like people, need to stay young and vigorous and unafraid, and if sometimes they injure themselves from an excess of energy, that is better than dwindling from a lack of it. Do you remember Stephen’s toast, outside Algiers? I think that will gain him more immortality than all his victories. And it is one we shall always honour, will we not, old friend?’

  Toby clasped his hand. ‘My country, right or wrong. The day we forget that, then indeed are we unworthy of his memory.’

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