Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  Kaitlin’s heart boiled with a witch’s brew of fear and nostalgia. Tears streamed down her face. “You were always kind to me. I’m sorry I had to leave.”

  “Some birds are not meant for a cage. So fly, little one.” Nejat smiled and closed the door.

  The words of Kaitlin’s mother came flooding back.

  “Remember how we used to scold you for running?” Nora Sullivan says as they hold each other. They’re kneeling under the terrible gaze of Varlick Naim. “You’d fly so fast, so dangerously—just like a rabbit. No one could catch you.”

  “I remember,” murmurs Kaitlin.

  “Good.” Nora holds Kaitlin at arm’s length. Her eyes are like a torch against the darkness. Her touch fills Kaitlin with strength. “Now fly, Rabbit!”

  Drawing purpose from the words of both Nora and Mistress Nejat, Kaitlin dashed to a large glass door and threw it open onto a grand balcony.

  Shouts came from the other side of the chamber door. The Djedid were interrogating Nejat.

  “Stand aside, woman,” shouted a soldier. “We are to search these quarters by order of the sultan’s chronicler.”

  “I am the lady of this seraglio,” Nejat bravely protested. “I answer only to the Bey of Tunis, not some librarian.”

  “You would be unwise to invite the Chronicler’s wrath,” threatened another soldier.

  “These are my private quarters! I will not tolerate this outrage.”

  Kaitlin climbed over the balcony railing and gripped the ridge of stonework running vertically up the wall. Her foot slipped, but she caught a handhold in time to avoid a plunge to her death. She climbed as fast as she could.

  “Enough, you insolent whore!” shouted the soldier. “Out of our way, or we’ll arrest you and flay you for the Chronicler’s pleasure.”

  The door bucked on its hinges as the soldiers kicked it in. A moment later, they crashed into Nejat’s room. Kaitlin’s fingernails found the ledge of the roof, and she fought to pull herself up. A soldier kicked open the other balcony door below, shattering the glass. Kaitlin swung her feet onto the roof without a second to spare.

  “You see?” said Nejat. “As I said. No one here.”

  The soldiers growled and stormed off. When she was sure they were gone, Kaitlin peeked over the ledge. Nejat was on the balcony below, looking up. Her eyes met Kaitlin’s, and she smiled.

  The two women shared a wordless farewell.

  Then Kaitlin was off again, running across the roof. She reached the east end, which came within jumping distance of the mosque. Her eyes traced up the minaret beyond, a square, slender tower tapering toward the top. She fixed her eyes on its domed roof, capped with a steeple—the tallest point in the city of Tunis.

  With the coming of day, Kaitlin’s chances of making it across the city to the docks were slim to none. She might have tried it anyway, but her brother had insisted—don’t take any chances. Remember the signal if you get in trouble. When there were no guards passing in the alley below, Kaitlin took a running leap onto the next roof. She tumbled to her feet and started toward the minaret.

  After all, she had always loved high places.

  ###

  The Janissary Docks

  City of Tunis

  Tuesday, September 13th, 1803

  Day 4, Sunrise

  John walked like a man in a dream, admiring the tallest ship in the harbor, the Wolf of Tunis. It was designed by Samuel Humphreys, whose visionary father had given birth to the Philadelphia and the flagship Constitution. Every hand-crafted beam lay perfectly flush. Like every muscle of Michelangelo’s David, her bow flowed gracefully into a prow, and her prow held up a mighty bowsprit pointed to the sea. Unlike British ships, hammered together from cheap imported lumber, the main and foremast of the American brig were hewn from towering oaks. John could read the wood grain beneath the white paint. She had the boot-polish black hull of her sister ships and a stripe of yellow between her gunports. Her 18-pounder guns, forged in the foundries of Philadelphia only a couple years ago, still had a glossy shine. John had never seen a ship so beautiful.

  “Aye, she’s a bonnie lass.” Declan’s cane thumped on the dock as he approached. He smiled at the beautiful ship, then at his son. There was something knowing in his eyes. As if his son had brought home a sweetheart, and he was proud. “Very bonnie indeed, lad.”

  John’s father was being sentimental. Wolf of Tunis was the correct tactical choice—the fastest ship with the longest guns. That’s why John had chosen her. And yet, as he stood in the agile vessel’s presence, looking into the eyes of his father, he couldn’t resist a smile. “Aye, very bonnie.”

  “Avast, lads,” Declan barked at his men. His smile was gone, and he strode about like a captain on the quarterdeck. “I need the decks cleared and the tops’ls ready to loose. I’m not about to miss the tide.”

  Keane and the others scrambled to action, lining up to climb aboard. Declan flashed John a wink, then hobbled toward the gangway of the Wolf of Tunis.

  “Wood, Oliver,” said Declan. “That other tower has an armory at the bottom. That’s where they keep the munitions. You men ready a boat to ferry supplies.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” The men replied in unison.

  Who is this man? thought John. Only four days ago, Declan had been a broken slave cowering in the corner of a dungeon. But now, he walked more upright. He limped a little less. And something in his voice reminded John of the father he remembered—a confident captain, undaunted by danger, hungry for adventure. The man who taught John to sail.

  As the sun rose over the lake, John thought of Kaitlin. She hadn’t arrived yet. Probably on her way, he reassured himself. To keep his mind off of his worries, John spent most of the next hour helping the crew clear away the mess on the ship. The pirates were complete slobs. None of the cables were properly coiled and stowed. Empty buckets and barrels were littered all over. The decks hadn’t been swabbed or re-sealed for a good while. One of the mainstays had parted and never been replaced, its frayed ends hanging loose. It was some time before the men could even move about with ease.

  “Sullivan!”

  The guttural drawl of the Tennessean drew John’s attention from his work. He looked to the top of the harbor wall. Buford stood a few feet outside the north tower, hands on the parapets, looking down.

  “What is it?” asked John.

  “Better get up here. It’s Miss Kaitlin.”

  A moment later, after racing up the tower steps, John half-stumbled through the door onto the ramparts. He walked up to Buford, panting. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but Buford held out a spyglass.

  John unfolded the glass and followed Buford’s pointing finger. He tracked the lens south and west across the city. The landscape of Tunis sloped gently upward as his eyes looked inland. The red light of dawn spread across houses, most of them stacked against one another like giant blocks. The occasional dome or minaret rose against the horizon. Remnants of Roman aqueducts or Crusader battlements supported the odd building. And at the center of it all, sitting atop a small hill, rose the palace of the bey—a collection of domes, steeples, and minarets.

  “The tallest tower,” said Buford. “It’s her signal.”

  John’s glass followed Buford’s directions, and he saw a spot of reflected sun winking in and out on the highest minaret. With growing dread, he recognized the pattern of the blinks. Several quick flashes, followed by a longer one. It was the distress signal John and Kaitlin had agreed upon. “Oh no. Katie…”

  “Something went wrong, most like. She’s trapped in the palace.”

  The spyglass snapped shut. John was already beating a quick path through the tower. He breezed past Ethan as he reached the landing of the spiral stairs.

  “What is it?” asked Ethan, trying to keep up with John’s descent.

  “It’s Katie,” said John. “She’s cornered in the bey’s palace. I’m going after her.”

  “There’s a mile of Janissaries, pirates, and Nizam-
I Djedid between here and the palace.”

  “One mile or ten, it doesn’t matter.” John strode onto the dock and looked across the water to the south tower and the door to the arsenal. He dug an ax out of a canvas bag—he would need it to break in. “I’ll find a way to get Katie out of there. I’m not losing her again.”

  “Then I’m coming with you,” said Ethan.

  “You don’t have to do that, Ethan.” John cinched his bandolier belt tighter. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “I know that. But we both promised Kaitlin we’d bring her home.” Ethan followed close behind. “I’ve as much right as you to keep my oath.”

  John stopped and regarded the Philadelphia surgeon’s mate. At length, he nodded. “True enough. It’s not as if I can turn down help.”

  “What’s happened?” asked Declan, his cane thumping toward them. He looked on the verge of a new emotional collapse. “Oh God, Katie. What’s happened?”

  John turned on his heels, stopping his father with a hand on his shoulder. “Declan, I need you to stay calm. Kaitlin’s all right. She’s sending us a distress signal, that’s all. I’m going to get her, but I need you to stay in charge here. Can you hold it together while I’m gone?”

  Declan blew out a deep breath. “Aye, son, I can. I will.”

  “Good. First thing’s first. We break into that south tower.”

  Ethan slung a rifle over his shoulder, his thumb under the strap. “What are we after?”

  John started the trek around the wharves, Ethan close behind. “Weapons. Lots of weapons.”

  Chapter 31

  The Palace of the Bey

  The City of Tunis

  Tuesday, September 13th, 1803

  Day 4, Sunrise

  Varlick Naim walked between rows of date palms and Janissary guards, Commander Isitan at his side. The flowing kaftans and börk headdresses of the guards rippled in the breeze. Their glares haunted Naim’s steps. Two years ago, when Naim first appeared in Tunis, the bey and his men had feared the sultan’s chronicler. Now the whole city was raising arms against him. How easily his lifelong reputation had crumbled.

  “Are you certain of this plan, Chronicler?” whispered Isitan.

  “Every man has a weakness,” Naim said under his breath. “Hammuda is no exception. Are the men in place?”

  Isitan looked askance at the palace guards flanking the path. “Our main force has mustered at the palace barracks. The special detachment is away. But the Janissaries are converging from all over the city. If we don’t gain control of these walls soon, our position will be untenable.”

  “It won’t come to that,” said Naim as he passed under the shade of a rotunda. He and Isitan climbed the palace steps, and two servants opened the jade-studded doors of Hammuda’s throne room. The two men stopped short and faced one another.

  Naim said, “In a matter of hours, the city will be subdued and Sullivan dead. Lend me your Nizam-I Djedid for one final effort, and the sunset will see them sailing for home. Isitan, my friend, will you trust me?”

  There was worry in Isitan’s eyes, but he nodded. “I trust you with my life, Sidi Naim. It will be done.”

  “Thank you, Commander.” Naim squeezed Isitan’s shoulder, giving him a fatherly smile. “One day, you will lead the Empire back to glory. In you, I see the strength of Mehmed the Conqueror reborn. I could not be more proud.”

  Isitan saluted and marched back down the steps.

  The smile slipped from Naim’s face. He felt a weariness come over him. A dozen pricks and cuts across his body—scarred over long ago—started to ache. Knots pulled his muscles tight. His feet longed for a salt bath. How many miles of road had he traveled as he crisscrossed the Empire? How many nights had he spent sleeping on rocks and dining on scorpions? How many enemies had he killed a second before their blade would have landed? Those years had used up more than a normal lifespan. As he walked through the palace doors, Naim knew that his tired body moved by sheer will.

  Naim strode into the throne room. The seething Hammuda sat under layers of shimmering robes, jewels gleaming on his turban. His male lover preened at his side, torso naked but for his bright trousers and golden arm circlets. A dozen Janissaries stood amidst the marble columns, muskets shouldered. Every tap of Naim’s boots echoed against the domed roof. He came to a stop on his usual spot, upon a tile mosaic at the center of the throne room, twenty paces from the bey.

  For a moment, no one spoke. The Janissaries watched with rapt attention. Yussef Sapatapa wore a smug smile. Bey Hammudda took audible breaths. Finally, the ruler of Tunis thrust an arm into the air, a scroll sticking out of his fist like the mighty sword of Murad.

  “You are not the only man in the Empire who can carry a message, Varlick Naim!” blustered Bey Hammuda. “Do you know what this is?”

  The bey paused, evidently expecting a reply. When he didn’t get one, he soldiered on. “This is a missive from Grand Vizier Yusuf Ziya Pasha in Istanbul, on behalf of Sultan Selim III, in which he exposes the false pretenses of your visit. Herein, the grand vizier details how the sultan gave dispensation for your journey to Tunis. How he indulged you in your quest for vengeance in the name of your son. And how you have ignored the sultan’s repeated requests to return with his new army, the Nizam-I Djedid.” The bey paused again.

  Hammuda sucked air through flaring nostrils. Varlick Naim wondered how many times the bey had practiced these words in his looking glass. The ruling prince of Tunis spoke by rote, his left eye blinking intermittently. His meaty hand trembled at his beard. Capillaries bulged red in his cheeks.

  Again receiving no reply, Bey Hammuda went on. “In fact, you are not here on a mission for the sultan. You are not the rightful leader of the Nizam-I Djedid.” The bey’s voice piped ever louder, his words sharpening into a yell. “And you most certainly are not within your authority to arrest the corbaci of my Janissaries!”

  The provincial potentate trailed off, his mouth working as if by momentum. There was the slightest creak of leather as several Janissaries shifted uncomfortably. Varlick Naim stood as if cast in stone, his feet set apart, hands resting at his sides. He looked at the bey with the stare of the dead.

  “Your authority is a mere pretense,” added the bey. “You invoke the voice of the sultan in vain, that you may usurp the soldiers of my guard, plunder my armories, and imperil the peace, all for the sake of this…this…”

  “Blood feud,” supplied Sapatapa.

  “Blood feud! You sank a whole ship full of tribute. You provoked war. Abused my hospitality. Treated with my enemies.” The bey tugged at his beard so hard now, it was a wonder he didn’t pull it out.

  A single drop of sweat ran down Naim’s temple.

  Veins snaked up Hammuda’s forehead. “And, and…” The bey trailed off and whispered in the ear of his obsequious lover.

  Sapatapa nodded, whispered a few soothing words of calm, and turned toward Naim. “Hammuda Bey is so distressed by this vile deception, he struggles to find adequate words for your offense. He wishes to convey his demand that you and the Nizam-I Djedid return Corbaci Ildemir, return any munitions and supplies you have falsely appropriated, and leave his city at once.”

  “Return my man and leave this city!” added the bey, as if his train of thought never faltered. He nodded to his Janissaries, and two of them took up positions on either side of Naim, their hands on scimitar hilts. “As you can see, this is not a request.”

  The last word leaped under the textured arches, clawed down the smooth columns, curled onto the marble floor. Another tense silence settled on the palace. Still, Naim said nothing.

  “Well?” demanded the bey. “Have you nothing to say? Or perhaps you’re better at letters than speech.”

  The janissaries treated the bey to a round of polite laughter—quiet enough to preserve decorum, loud enough to appear genuine. Hammuda grinned.

  Naim angled his periphery toward the snickering palace guards. “Of course, Your Excellency, you are right.
”

  Hammuda blinked suspiciously for a moment, then smirked. “Isn’t this a pleasant turn in our conversation. I’m glad we can finally come to amicable terms.”

  “As am I, my bey,” Naim said, bowing deeply. “It is time that the Nizam-I Djedid left Tunis. Your Corbaci will be returned to his Janissaries, and we will depart your city by sunset.”

  “No!” shouted Hammuda, squeezing a knot of beard. “You will leave at once!”

  “With deepest apologies, my bey, I am in the midst of a delicate mission to apprehend a fugitive of the Empire. A dangerous man that we cannot, in good conscience, allow to roam free in your domain. If I may beg your indulgence for one more day—”

  “Hammuda Bey has already indulged you for these two years,” Sapatapa said in his silken tone. “I think, in the interest of preserving the peace, your immediate departure would be the wisest course.”

  “And so it is, Hammuda Bey.” Naim bowed again. “I extend my formal apology for any trouble brought upon your court, and may peace be upon you.”

  “Yes, yes.” Hammuda made a dismissive wave. “And upon you.”

  The two Janissaries flanking Naim drew close, ready to seize him if he refused to leave.

  “Before I depart…” Naim slipped a wax-sealed scroll from the folds of his kaftan and proffered it to Hammuda. “I have one last chronicle to deliver.”

  Hammuda knit his brows. The guards looked to him for direction. “A chronicle from the sultan? What more could he possibly have to say?”

  “The missive will make everything clear.”

  Hammuda narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He leaned close to Yussef Sapatapa, whispering so Naim couldn’t hear. As before, Naim read their lips.

  “What do you make of this?” asked Hammuda.

  Sapatapa smirked. “Perhaps the sultan wants to chasten the Chronicler and force him to deliver an apology. Perhaps the sultan offers recompense.”