Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  “That’s the place.” Kaitlin pointed to the windmill.

  “Your fence lives in a windmill?” John asked. “…In the slave quarter?”

  “It’s Buford’s tavern and trading post,” Kaitlin explained. “He was the Silver Hand’s most trusted contact.”

  “Buford—you mean the Mountain Man?” Declan jumped up from an old crate, where he’d been resting his feet. “Out of the question, girl! He’s mad as a hatter!”

  “Buford’s not crazy!” Kaitlin said at the top of her whisper. “He did some bad things in the Colonies during the wars, but he’s trying to do better now.”

  “Which colony?” asked Ethan.

  “Some town in the mountains called Tennessee.”

  Ethan knit his brows. “Tennessee isn’t a town. It’s one of the United States. How does a man from there run a prospering tavern in the middle of a Muslim city? Where spirits are forbidden, and most Christians are slaves?”

  “He is a slave,” Kaitlin answered. “But Buford’s made a name for himself smuggling for the bey and the Janissaries. Muslims can’t sell spirits, but they sometimes look the other way when Christians do. They say Buford’s wealthy enough to buy his own freedom, but he won’t.”

  “But…” Ethan shook his head. “Slaves can’t earn money.”

  “They can on the Barbary Coast,” John explained. “They’re expected to pay for their own clothes and lodging—to their masters.”

  “Aye,” agreed Declan. “By hook or by crook. Most make their money as pickpockets.”

  “Or thieves,” noted Kaitlin.

  “As if being a slave isn’t miserable enough,” Ethan said.

  Declan limped closer to his daughter. “Buford’s a sellsword, a highwayman, a black marketeer, and God knows what else. He’s dangerous. I don’t want my daughter anywhere near that lunatic.”

  “For once, I agree with Declan,” said John. “Isn’t there someone else, Kait? Someone more trustworthy?”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Kaitlin rounded on her father and brother. “Mam’s dead. Rune’s dead. The Silver Hand are all dead. I’ve been all alone while that monster kept Da in a tower and hunted down every thief in the city. I had to sleep in sewers. Hide my face from anyone that might know me. Spend every night cold and hungry. You’ll never know what it was like!”

  “Kait…I’m sorry.” John swallowed a lump. He suddenly felt his great luck at finding Ethan, Melisande, and Dominique in Pennsylvania. While he’d been warm, and fed, and among friends, his sister had been surviving Hell. How he wished he could have been there for her.

  “Buford is the only soul in the city I can still trust.” Kaitlin’s voice fell to a murmur. “So, no. There is no one else.”

  John exchanged a quiet look with Declan. He found his own concern reflected in his father’s eyes. They could both see it. Ever since their escape, Kaitlin’s nerves had become increasingly frayed. John was pushing his sister to her limits. But he could see no other way. They were islanded in a hostile city. Anything less than bold action would mean capture and death.

  John looked out over the heart of the city proper, situated on a wide isthmus between two lakes. To the east, the shores of the Lake of Tunis spilled into a long narrow inlet, flanked by rows of wharves, warehouses, and walls—the docks owned by the Janissaries. To the south, the tenements slowly gained height until they became luxurious manors or tall minarets. To the west, the golden domes of Bey Hammuda’s palace stood near the banks of the smaller inland lake.

  “Hurry.” Kaitlin climbed onto a gated wall spanning the street. “Another Janissary patrol will come by any minute.”

  They followed Kaitlin across the ledge toward the gabled roof adjacent to the windmill.

  Declan whispered a prayer. “Lord, watch over my darling daughter.”

  ###

  The River Falls Trading Post

  City of Tunis

  Monday, September 12th, 1803

  Day 3, Dawn

  The door to the tiny attic opened a crack, and the orange glow of embers fell upon Kaitlin’s freckled face. John looked over her shoulder, peering into the hall. “Katie,” he whispered. “What about the patrons?”

  She looked back at him, her eyes malty brown in the firelight. “The taproom is usually empty at this hour. Loud revelers draw attention—Buford doesn’t like that. So he sends them to bed. Follow me.”

  The four travelers followed the outer circumference of the windmill, which led down through a series of winding stairs. Inn rooms were built throughout the structure, and John recognized beams and planks salvaged from ships, mottled from years at sea. Still, the wood was lacquered and fit neatly together, suggesting a resourceful builder.

  They descended onto a mezzanine which encircled the entire windmill. John looked over the railing and saw a warm and cozy beer hall. The floors, tables, and chairs were all built of polished oak. At the center, a large fire pit blazed with hot coals, giving off the smell of woodsmoke and meat. The decor consisted of mounted game, bearskins, and antler sconces. The place reminded John of a Philadelphia tavern. It reminded him of home.

  As they reached the ground floor, John saw a figure behind the bar with his back to the newcomers. He was a massive man, not so much for his height as for his muscular width. His sleeveless kaftan was crafted of dark leather. Veins bulged in his biceps as he polished a glass. Thick black hair hung below his shoulders. “We’re closed.” He had a musical frontier drawl. “Trade is not to be plied at the witching hour.”

  “And what about the thieving hour?” asked Kaitlin.

  The barkeep made an odd grunt. “Hmm. I heard men come down my steps. Didn’t hear a girl’s feet. Only one girl I know walks that silent.” The man turned around, revealing a large skinning knife stuck through his belt. He had a thick beard and one large pectoral visible where his kaftan parted. His black eyes looked in opposite directions. One settled on them, the other stared into space. “That would be Miss Kaitlin.”

  “It’s good to see you, Buford,” said Kaitlin.

  “I did not think to see you again, on account of your escape.”

  “It didn’t go according to plan.”

  “Hmm. Take seat. I shall bring refreshment.”

  John looked to Declan on his left. Now that he saw this “Buford” for himself, he understood Declan’s concern. If this titanic Tennessean decided to turn on them, John doubted he could stop the man with less than a cannon. Declan returned a similar look of concern. The four of them found a seat at a large round table, waiting patiently while Buford rattled around in a back room behind the bar.

  “Are you sure about this, Kait?” John whispered. “This man seems a little…off.”

  “I’ve known Buford for years,” said Kaitlin. “He’s not like everyone says.”

  “A likely story,” Declan said under his breath. “Pirates and slaves alike fear the Mountain Man. Everyone knows he was a killer on the colonial frontier before coming to Barbary.”

  “I’m not stupid, Da,” Kaitlin snapped. “I know he’s fought in wars and done bad things. But he’s sorry, and he’s trying to do better.”

  “‘Forgive as the Lord forgave,’” quoted Ethan, invoking a Bible verse. “More to the point, I smell food.”

  Kaitlin’s face lit up. “Buford’s vittles are the best in the city!”

  John could only shake his head and smile. “Hunted by Janissaries, Turk soldiers, pirates, and an assassin—but we’re trusting this violent frontiersman because he has good vittles. Glad that’s settled.”

  “That’s why it has to be him!” said Kaitlin. “He’s the only man in the city Naim can’t scare.”

  “It’s not as if we have a choice, John,” suggested Ethan. “The sun is coming up. Where else can we go?”

  “All I’m saying—” John began.

  “Shh!” Kaitlin watched Buford lumber toward the table with a tray.

  “Buttermilk for the lady.” Buford set a pewter cup before Kaitlin. He gave mu
gs to the others. “Whiskey for the men.” He pulled an enormous cleaver out of a flank of steaming roast, which reeked of vinegar and garlic. “Bear for us all.” He served a bloody hunk of meat to each guest.

  John cleared his throat. “Erm, thank you.” He was the first to take a bite. His lips puckered at the crust of garlic. The meat was so gamey as to be rancid. He gave a wet cough. “Delicious.”

  Declan’s brows furrowed as he chewed. He picked a lead pellet from his teeth. “Aye, most kind.”

  Ethan closed his eyes, then swallowed hard. “So—” A cough choked his words. “—good.”

  Kaitlin was scarfing the roast right out of her hand, juice running down her fingers. With her mouth full, she said, “Buford’s cooking is the best.” She slurped greedily from her cup, milk running down her chin, then bit off another hunk.

  “Hmm.” Buford smiled, his mustache parting like curtains. “Hungry varmint. Like always.”

  Ethan shifted a mouthful from one cheek to the other. “I’ve never had bear. It doesn’t taste the way I’d imagine.”

  Buford’s functional eye swerved to Ethan, then to John. “That Negro yours?”

  John choked on a mouthful of whiskey.

  “I am not his slave!” Ethan spat his half-chewed roast on the floor.

  Buford shrugged. “Merely a question. Best not to get mouthy.”

  Ethan snorted and started to rise. Buford’s stolid eyes didn’t move.

  “Ethan.” John shook his head. Like it or not, they needed this man and couldn’t afford to offend him. “Now isn’t the time.”

  “That’s all you have to say, John?” Reluctantly, Ethan sat back down. He spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m not surprised.”

  Kaitlin loudly cleared her throat. “Buford, Ethan and my brother are sailors. From the American Navy. They came to rescue me and my da, Declan.”

  “Hmm.” Buford scratched at something deep under his beard. “Brave boys. Plan’s gone to shit, like as not.” Buford leaned toward Ethan and John as if imparting conspiratorial secrets. “If you must know, bear has been hard to come by hereabouts. This is camel. With proper seasoning, it tastes much the same. A fact I share in confidence. Do not tell the locals.”

  Ethan frowned at Buford. “My lips are sealed.”

  “Hmm.” Buford sat back, his chair groaning as if the legs might snap. “What can Buford do for Miss Kaitlin?”

  Kaitlin was still smacking on a bite of ‘camel.’ “We need to steal a ship, sail to the Lake Fort, rescue Johnny’s sweetheart and a bunch of sailors, and escape to America.”

  “You take a fall while climbing, Miss Kaitlin? You do not sound right in the head.”

  Kaitlin shrugged and took another bite. “It’s Johnny’s plan.”

  One of Buford’s eyes swiveled to John.

  John gave a nervous chuckle. “Ah, there’s a little more to it than that. I believe what my sister is trying to say is that we have an opportunity for you.”

  “An opportunity,” Buford parroted.

  “At this moment, I have a veteran crew of fighting sailors ready to overthrow their guards and take the Lake Fort. All they need is a ship. Help us take one from the Janissary docks, and you’ll have your freedom.”

  “Truly. And who, may I inquire, will man this fine new vessel of yours?”

  “A few able-bodied seamen from the bastedan,” added Declan. “Give me a good dozen, and I’ll make any ship sail.”

  “A perfect plan, save the small matter of the Janissaries who patrol their docks, the walls surrounding them, and the chain which blocks all manner of egress. No ship leaves them docks but that Janissaries permit.”

  “Leave them to us,” said John. “The Janissaries will soon have more pressing problems.”

  On cue, Kaitlin produced the ring box covered in beeswax. She opened it and slid it across the table. “Can you copy that, Buford?”

  Buford picked up the box and examined the impression of Naim’s ring. “That’s an imperial seal. Won’t be cheap.”

  The golden ibex slammed on the table with a hollow clang. Kaitlin held onto it for a moment, then let go. “Take it.”

  Buford’s thick black eyebrows raised.

  “The bey’s golden ibex,” John noted. “That should pay for our lodging, the forgery, and the men we need.”

  “A coveted treasure.” Buford turned the statue over in his hand. “But impossible to sell in this province.”

  “We went to great trouble to bring that to you,” Ethan said with an edge in his voice. “A resourceful man like you should be able to find a buyer. Especially since we’re offering to take you away from here. That’s right—there will be a spot for you on the ship when we escape. We’re offering you riches and freedom. What more could you want?”

  “For a first, cause to believe you might succeed.” Buford set down the ibex.

  “We will,” insisted Kaitlin, “Johnny and Ethan sailed across the Mediterranean to save me. My da’s been a ship captain all his life. With your help, our plan can work. And you can finally go home to Tennessee. Please help us, Buford.”

  Buford unstoppered a whiskey bottle. He upended it, the amber liquid draining with alarming speed. When he set it down again, he said, “I can offer you supplies and succor. I will forge the seal you require. But I am a merchant and an innkeeper. I will not be a hired Hessian, nor will I have truck with suchlike.”

  John’s eyes landed on the large multi-barrel gun hanging over the bar. “Really? Then why do you need that?”

  The Tennessean turned around in his chair, studying the weapon as if having never noticed it before. It had a wooden butt and flintlock, not unlike a musket. But quite unlike a musket, it had a bundle of long steel barrels all joined together. The gun appeared to fire seven balls at once—a gun unlike any John had seen. “A decorative piece only,” said the trader as he turned back to the table.

  “Buford, don’t you want to go home?” Kaitlin said. “All these years, smuggling for the bey, bribing the Janissaries, paying taxes to your master—you told me it was all to keep their knives out of your back. This is the chance we’ve been waiting for. Come with us.”

  “This is your chance, Miss Kaitlin, not mine. I expect I shall not see the Great Smoky Mountains again. Not in this life. I accept your trade and will provide the services you desire. But here is where I shall remain.”

  “Here?” puzzled Ethan. “On the Barbary Coast? As a slave?”

  “I expect so.”

  “That is your choice,” John said.

  “Aye.” Declan folded his arms. “As long as you keep to your word, that’s fine by me.”

  “Not by me,” Kaitlin said. “Buford, whatever wrong you think you’ve done, you deserve freedom as much as anyone. You’re a good man.”

  After a pause, Buford said, “I wish it were true, Miss Kaitlin. But it ain’t. I will assist you on account of your recompense, but I will not join in your escape. I am a businessman. You are my clientele. As it has always been.”

  “What about our friendship?” asked Kaitlin.

  “This man ain’t your friend, darling lass,” said Declan.

  “You best listen to your paps,” Buford agreed. “Only one ever came close to being my friend. Him I broke to pieces upon a rock in the river. I surely would again.”

  Tears brimmed in Kaitlin’s eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

  “‘What fellowship has light with darkness?’” Buford picked up the ibex and bit one of the curled horns. Appearing satisfied with the quality of the gold, he tossed it over his shoulder, and it bounced behind the bar.

  There was a flash of shock in Kaitlin’s eyes. Her lips quivered for a moment. She shot out of her chair and sent her plate and cup flying.

  Roast juice splattered the table. Buttermilk doused Buford’s beard. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look at her. His eyes remained locked in a forked stare.

  “Fine!” Firelight glinted in Kaitlin’s tearful eyes. “You’re a mean old sod anyway. Stay h
ere and rot for all I care!” She stormed toward the stairs.

  “You’re a right bastard.” Declan rose shakily and hobbled after her.

  Seeing his sister hurt so, John’s blood ran hot. “You didn’t have to upset her.”

  “Hmm,” said Buford. “The girl is tough—tougher than most. But it’s time she turned loose of fool notions.”

  “‘No fellowship with light,’ indeed,” said Ethan. “Corinthians.”

  “You know scripture,” said Buford.

  “And you know yourself.”

  “As any man should,” Buford picked up the box with Naim’s signet. “I will begin the work. You gentlemen will need rooms during the daylight hours. Have you given thought to how you will make use of this seal?”

  “Simple,” said John. “We’re going to start a war.”

  Chapter 25

  The River Falls Trading Post

  City of Tunis

  Monday, September 12th, 1803

  Day 3, Dusk

  Ethan Auldon still felt the pain of the hand crushers. Every scratch of his quill took great effort, but he had the best penmanship in the group, and it fell to him to forge Naim’s orders. He scratched out Arabic letters beneath the only window. He copied Kaitlin’s translation by the fading light of day. Like John, Declan, and Kaitlin, he was crammed into Buford’s attic at the top of the windmill, a space shaped like a wedge of cheese. They had barely enough room for a few bedrolls, their belongings, and a crate which Ethan used for a writing desk. Laughter and a merry dance-tune filtered up from the lower floors. He didn’t recognize the Arab instruments playing in the taproom—one sounding like a twangy lute and the other a tinny kettle drum. Foreign or not, the music reminded him of his father’s Sawduster Tavern—and home.