Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  “We’ll need to make a mess of the place,” added Buford.

  A dark look came into Oliver’s eyes. “We’ll be happy to serve.”

  ###

  The first light of day was breaking over the horizon when Buford opened the door to the River Falls taproom. Decan, who had been sleeping with his head on a table near the central firepit, awakened and sprung to his feet. John and Ethan followed the Mountain Man into the tavern.

  “Did you have any luck?” asked Declan. “Were you able to find any good sailors?”

  John, Ethan, and Buford gave Declan the same silent look. Then they stepped aside. A column of men in slaves’ smocks poured into the tavern, freed from the dungeon only moments ago. The four boys liberated from Kalkan’s house filed in next.

  Declan’s face lit up as the freed men marched by. His eyes landed on one man in particular, and his mouth fell open. “Tommy, my boy!” Declan cried. He hobbled forward.

  “Captain…it’s you,” said Thomas Keane, a man in his forties.

  John smiled. Keane once served on Declan’s ship, the Wandering Hart, as did several of the others liberated from the dungeon. Keane’s brown hair had grown long and stringy, and he was missing several of his teeth. But he was still the able seaman John remembered from his youth—the man who first saw the Barbary Pirate flag on that fateful day.

  “Aye, it’s me.” Declan threw his arms around the man.

  “Right this way,” said Buford to the others. “I will supply you fresh vittles and strike your chains. Take seat.”

  The half-starved men scratched at overgrown beards as they shuffled to the tables. They looked around with distant stares, as if in disbelief at the prospect of a hot meal—much less freedom.

  “Mr. Wood!” Declan embraced his old Scottish chef. “And Roger…” He shook hands with an English youth who once worked the headsails. “They found you boys.”

  “Aye,” said Keane. “We’re lucky the bey pulled slaves from the quarry for foundry work. This assassin from Constantinople has the whole city spooked. How did you get us out, Captain?”

  “It wasn’t I.” Declan smiled proudly at John. “It was my son, Midshipman John Sullivan, of the United States Navy. He’s the reason any of us are walking out of here tonight.”

  The three Wandering Hart sailors looked at John, their drawn faces lighting up. Their bones showed under their skin. Their eyes were heavy with bags. But whatever they lacked in vigor, they made up for in spirit.

  John felt a rush of pride at the attention—and more than a little embarrassment. “Mr. Keane, good to see you again.”

  “Midshipman is it?” Keane slapped John’s arm. “You’ve sprouted, haven’t you lad?”

  “Ah…I suppose so.” John scratched his head.

  “And this here is Surgeon’s Mate Ethan Auldon.” Declan hobbled to Ethan’s side. “A friend of my son from the Colonies. Never a lad with a truer heart.”

  Looking a little caught off guard, Ethan exchanged nods with the sailors. “A pleasure.”

  “All right men,” said Declan. “We’ve a way to get you boys home. It’s risky, but if you’re all of a mind, I could use your hands at the mast.”

  “Of a mind?” chuckled Keane. “Say the word, and we’ll work the canvas in a hurricane.”

  “That’s the spirit. Many hands make light work.”

  “Speaking of spirits…” Keane looked over at Buford. The Mountain Man was filling flagons from a tapped barrel.

  John and Declan smiled. They said at the same time, “Right this way.”

  Chapter 27

  The Palace of the Bey

  The City of Tunis

  Tuesday, September 13th, 1803

  Day 4, Pre-Dawn Hours

  Kaitlin jumped off the palace wall and landed on the sloping roof of a stable. She slid down the shingles and jumped the last eight feet to the ground.

  The Seraglio gardens were much as she remembered. Rows of poplars cut shadows through the moonlight. Hedges and rose bushes encircled stone benches and bird baths. Lily pads ambled across a babbling fountain pool. A cobbled path lead to the double doors of a sprawling manor.

  Satisfied there were no guards nearby, Kaitlin darted under the shadows of trees until she reached a side door. She picked the lock and stole inside. It was relatively easy to sneak through the halls of the seraglio. The lamplight of eunuch guards swept over the plush couches and polished tables of the harem halls. But with patient, carefully timed movements, she sneaked past them to the other side of the building. She exited another side door and crossed the cobbled path to the Janissary barracks. A few minutes later, she climbed onto a second-floor balcony. She picked a lock and crept inside a darkened study.

  Burgundy carpets, couches, and pillows contrasted with bare white walls. Glass double doors looked into an adjoining parlor. A rolled prayer rug lay near a fireplace. A Quran sat on the mantle. At the center stood the mahogany desk of Corbaci Ildemir, the man who once held her father captive in a rock quarry. The bey had recently promoted him to commander of all the Janissaries in Tunis. Kaitlin had learned much eavesdropping in the shadows for the past year. She moved to the desk where sat a journal, quill, and ink pot.

  Kaitlin knelt behind the desk and went to work on a locked chest beneath. Her tongue poked from her lips as she worked, her eyes glancing through the glass parlor doors from time to time. She felt a click as a single tumbler popped into place—one of the most exquisite feelings in the world—and she hurried to release another.

  A door slammed open. Boots thudded toward her from somewhere beyond the adjoining parlor. Voices spilled through the corridor.

  Kaitlin’s heart pounded. She cursed the last stubborn tumbler. The voices came close enough to hear. They were speaking Arabic.

  “There better be a damn good reason for this!” said a stern, military man. Most likely, Corbaci Ildemir.

  “A matter of Imperial security,” came the calm, pleasant reply. The unmistakable voice of Varlick Naim.

  “Come on, come on,” whispered Kaitlin. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat.

  “How very disappointing, Katie,” Rune whispered in Kaitlin’s mind. “You will never be the equal of Aruna Taigar Pair with those sloppy skills.”

  “Damnit, I’m trying, Rune!” Kaitlin jiggled the lock, but it wouldn’t budge. “The least you could do is help.”

  “Close your eyes. Feel the lock. Know the lock.”

  A bead of sweat ran off her nose. In her mind, she climbed inside the keyhole. Looked at the mechanism. Studied the positions of the tumblers. The angle of her instruments. She opened her eyes, adjusted her file, and pressed. A soft click and the padlock cracked open. “Got it!”

  Lamplight spilled into the parlor—a thief’s worst enemy.

  “If it is your aim to intimidate the Janissaries of Tunis,” boomed Corbaci Ildemir, “you will be sadly disappointed.”

  “I am but a humble servant of Sultan Selim,” Naim replied in his most velvety tone. “As are the Janissaries. I wish only to clear your good name.”

  In a flurry, Kaitlin stuffed a sheaf of documents into the chest—Naim’s journals, letters, and correspondence. She closed the lid, fastened the lock, and scrambled onto the balcony. Before Kaitlin could climb back down, she saw torches on the path below. A dozen Nizam-I Djedid and Janissaries were milling about beneath the balcony, eyeing each other. Apparently, Naim had come in force. More Janissaries were coming around the corner of the building. She would never get by them. Her heart thumped against her ribs. She had to think!

  “What questions could you have at this hour?” groused Corbaci Ildemir.

  “Urgent questions, I assure you,” said Naim.

  The Corbaci and the Chronicler rounded the corner into the parlor. Ildemir walked with the same rigid gait as always, the silver embroidery on his uniform glittering in the torchlight. Naim walked beside him, towering over the others. Their eyes were pointed in Kaitlin’s direction, but with the darkness in the office,
they didn’t see her yet. A column of six Nizam-I Djedid marched close behind, lanterns in hand.

  Kaitlin looked around, desperate for a place to hide. Under the couch? Fool girl! she chided herself. Behind the drawn curtains? This is Naim, she reminded herself. Not some yawning palace guard.

  The fireplace! Judging by the wide mantle, the flue might allow her to fit. If not, she was dead. What was it Johnny said when they concocted this insane plan? Draw the ace, win the spade?…something like that.

  Kaitlin plunged head first into the cold hearth. She straddled the ashes with her feet, lest she stir up a cloud of dust, and braced her feet against each wall. She inch-wormed up the chimney and gathered the trailing end of her cloak. Not a second later, the doors of the study flew open. Her legs burned as she held in place.

  “Very well, Naim.” Ildemir’s voice was near, suggesting he stood behind his desk. “What are your questions?”

  “I am looking for four fugitives,” said Naim. “Among them an American officer of twenty, an Irish quarry slave, a woman dressed as a man, and an African. They are dangerous enemies of the sultan. By his command, they must be apprehended. What do you know of their whereabouts?”

  “Me?” asked Corbaci Ildemir. “What would I know about your escaped prisoners? As a matter of fact, no one knows what you’re up to on that island. But I would hate for your trip to be a waste. I’ll dispatch a few of my officers to search the Lake Fort. While they’re there, perhaps they can give your Nizam-I Djedid a lesson in respect.”

  There was a pause, followed by Naim’s cool reply. “A generous offer, Corbaci. But the sultan’s new army is already engaged in a search of this barracks. In fact, earlier today, they searched your private estate in the city.”

  “What?” cried Ildemir. “You’ve gone too far! The bey granted you no permission for this outrage!”

  “I take orders from the sultan.” A paper crinkled as it changed hands. “This imperial warrant grants me broad authority in these matters.”

  Soot choked the air in the flue. Kaitlin screwed up her nose, fighting off an itch. A sneeze would, at this moment, be a catastrophe.

  “This writ is a year old,” said Ildemir. “The bey may be afraid of you, but I know abuse of the sultan’s faith when I see it. I ought to ship you back to Istanbul in chains.”

  The room fell silent. Kaitlin listened to her own breathing. Naim’s boots brushed on the carpet.

  “I thwarted a traitor as a starving urchin,” said Naim. “I delivered your sultan into this world with my own bloody hands. I have saved the lives of two sovereigns with nothing more than a silk cord. ‘Faith’ is the palest description of what you speak.” Naim’s boots came to a stop in front of the fireplace, barely a foot from Kaitlin’s hiding place. “I will give you one chance to confess. Admit to helping John Sullivan and the fugitives escape the Lake Fort. Admit to helping them in exchange for my correspondence. Turn the prisoners over to me, here and now, and be forgiven. Do this, and I shall go in peace.”

  The itch crawled deeper in Kaitlin’s nose. She fought back the urge to sneeze.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the Corbaci. “I’ve never heard of a John Sullivan.”

  “Guards,” commanded Naim. “Arrest the corbaci and search his chambers.”

  Boots stomped into the office. Naim moved away from the fireplace. She got her hand free and pinched her nose. The sneeze came out in a tiny squeak, drowned out by the commotion.

  “This is outrageous!” cried Corbaci Ildemir as the soldiers seized him. “The bey will hear of this! This isn’t over, Naim.”

  After the soldiers took the corbaci away, Kaitlin looked up. The light of day spilled down from the mouth of the chimney. In the study, papers fluttered and furniture crashed. She inched upward. After climbing about four feet, she heard the good news.

  “Chronicler!” said one of the Djedid. “We have something.”

  Kaitlin broke into a grin.

  Chapter 28

  The Palace of the Bey

  City of Tunis

  Tuesday, September 13th, 1803

  Day 4, Near Dawn

  “We marvel at the tools of our modern age.” Varlick Naim lowered a copper bowl no wider than his palm into a clay pot, holding it by thumb and finger. He spoke softly, as though a raised voice might crack the metalwork. “Chronometers, and watches, and clocks, all buzzing and ticking. They guide us through ever busier lives, assuring us of greater achievements on the horizon. But as we celebrate the riches of our newfound knowledge, we never wonder if we’re poorer for what we’ve left behind.”

  The clay pot was filled with water, and Naim let the bowl float free on the surface. The ripples reflected the gray light of approaching dawn. The glaze of the pottery gleamed in the candlelight. A hole in the bottom of the bowl allowed in a trickle of water, which formed into a puddle. A light breeze rustled through the small servant’s room in the bey’s palace, causing the bowl to drift. In precisely one minute, it would sink.

  “Consider the humble water clock.” Naim watched the process with fascination. “Used in Ancient Persia over two thousand years ago to mark the holy days. I used to build these clocks with my son and daughter.” Naim’s lips drew into a smile. “It brought them such joy to watch the bowl sink and count the minutes with stones. Such a simple instrument, and yet so powerful.”

  The sound of labored breathing grew louder, intruding on Naim’s ruminations. He stood and paced back to his chair. His eyes wandered over the small bed, side table, and oil lamp. A door connected the adjacent suite. These quarters normally belonged to the attendant of some prized guest, but as this wing of the palace was currently off-limits to all but Naim and the Nizam-I Djedid, it served as a makeshift cell. Naim smoothed the folds of his kaftan and took a seat. He looked across the water clock to the chair opposite, where Corbaci Ildemir slumped to the side, wheezing.

  The commander of the Janissaries could barely see through his left eye, which was swollen shut. Blood dripped from Corbaci Ildemir’s nose down to his patterned kaftan. His arms and legs were bound to the chair. The first four fingernails of his right hand were gone, replaced by bloody patches. His uninjured eye blazed at Naim. A Djedid soldier stood nearby, a fingernail still pinched in his pliers.

  “In our modern age,” continued Naim, “men too often mistake the complex for the elegant. How could building something as mundane as a water clock bring my children such joy? My wife believed they were happy to be with their father, no matter the game. I thought she must be right, given my long absences in the sultan’s service…”

  Ildemir glared as he swallowed a gulp of blood. The copper bowl continued to sink.

  “…But I have come to believe the discovery of their own industry was the source of their joy. With the knowledge of their ancestors and the work of an hour, they became masters of time. Isn’t that a marvel?”

  Ildemir’s nostrils flared as he took in a sharp breath. The rim of the bowl hovered above the water.

  “You too, Sidi Ildemir, are a master of time,” suggested Naim. “With a few simple words, you can stop the clock. You can defy fate.”

  Ildemir spat a red glob onto the gold tassels of the carpet. As the minute elapsed, the bowl submerged beneath the water.

  Naim nodded to the soldier. Ildemir’s breathing quickened. The Djedid closed the pliers on the Janissary’s left thumbnail. Naim reached into the pot of water and calmly raised the copper bowl to the surface. Water trickled as the bowl emptied. Breath whistled through Ildemir’s broken nose. With a wet rip, the pliers pulled the nail free. Corbaci Ildemir muffled his growl of pain with tight lips.

  “As you wish.” Naim let the bowl settle onto the water again. “Another minute begins.”

  “‘The Chronicler of Constantinople’ indeed,” Ildemir sneered. “You expect to break me with a beating and a pair of pliers? Your reputation is sadly exaggerated.”

  Naim looked down at the sinking bowl.

  “You
’re little better than one of those thugs in the harbor going al corso. You’ll have to work a lot harder to get a false confession out of me.” Ildemir’s chin jutted forward. “You’re pathetic.”

  Naim sat back in his chair. He folded his hands over his knee. “You thought the water clock was for you?”

  Ildemir’s brow furrowed.

  The chair groaned as Naim rose to his feet. He walked to the door connecting the neighboring suite and knocked. The door swung open and a Djedid entered leading a shackled woman by a chain. The woman was slender, with skin as smooth as her silken clothes. Eyeliner left black tear streaks on her face. She cried through a kerchief tied around her mouth. Blood dripped from her right hand, where she was missing four fingernails—the same number as Ildemir.

  The corbaci’s face went slack. “Bahar?” His chair jolted as he struggled at his bonds. “Bahar! My love!”

  Ildemir watched powerlessly as Naim’s soldiers tied his wife to a chair—her hands to the arms, her feet to the legs. She met her husband’s gaze with fearful eyes. The Djedid with the pliers knelt beside her.

  “Naim, you poisonous wretch! What have you done?” The bound Janissary bared his teeth. “You’ll die for this! You hear me? I’ll kill you myself.”

  Naim stood in front of the clay pot, looking down on Ildemir. “Threats cannot stop the clock. Only answers.” He dropped the bowl onto the water, and once again it began to sink.

  Ildemir’s eyes widened. He looked toward his wife, his defiant scowl collapsing as he saw the Djedid close the pliers on her manicured thumbnail. The other guard did the same to him. Bahar stared down at the sight of her hand about to be mutilated, the gag muffling her sobs.

  “What do you want?” pleaded Ildemir.

  “You know what I want,” said Naim. He pointed to a stack of papers on an end table. “The Djedid found my personal correspondence in your study. I know it was Sullivan who stole it, and I know you’re harboring him.”