No, imagined Naim. It is the tool of my art. Blood is my paint. Death is my palette. And my art—my art is the end of all things.
Standing at the edge of the balcony, Naim felt an irresistible urge come over him. He looked directly east. The sun spread its glory across the russet Tunisian lake, bright, and warm, and filled with the presence of God. Dozens of little triangular sails circled around the square sails of the single prize. A fleet against a frigate. He gripped the rail as he forced his eyes to look into the blinding heat, feeling the sticky film between his fingers. The blood ran out of the grooves and down the sculpted base of the balcony.
Isitan had been right. It was time for Naim’s work to end. Time for him to go home. Time for him to rest.
And Isitan had been wrong. Because for Naim, there was no end, no home, no rest. There never had been. There was only the work. And the work had to continue.
A single red drop plunged to the earth.
Part IX
Independence
Chapter 55
Liberated American Snow Brig
The Lake of Tunis
Wednesday, September 14th, 1803
Day Five, Before Dawn
The moon was long set. The sun was yet to rise over the Lake of Tunis. Water sloshed against the hull of the ship, black as ink in the darkness. Dominique found the silence eerie. The sailors of the liberated frigate moved about in the dark, keeping their voices to whispers. Acting Captain Ryland ordered no lanterns, no ship’s bells, and no raised voices, lest they give away their position to the enemy. Ninety-one souls existed only as shadows and murmurs. Dominique sipped her Turkish pipe at the rail, staring into the dark.
There was a buzzing sound nearby. She looked over the cannon to her right and smiled. John Sullivan was curled up against the gun carriage, snoring.
“Look at him,” said Melisande, leaning on the rail beside her. “Sleeping like a newborn puppy.”
John’s arms were folded across his chest in defiance of sleep. Yet he looked peaceful—as if the iron barrel was a feather pillow. His auburn hair was oily with smoke, his cheeks were burnished with sweat. He’d done the impossible—he’d fought through the streets of Tunis and stolen the mightiest ship in the harbor. And yet, sleeping against the cannon, he looked so vulnerable. So gentle.
Dominique smiled. “I envy him. I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to.”
“Riley ordered him to a hammock.” Melisande reached for the pipe and took a few puffs. “Sully bargained the captain down to a ten-minute nap. He’s been asleep almost four hours now.”
“Good show for Ryland,” said Dominique. “Sully never does a thing for his own good but that we make him.”
Melisande grunted. “Like steering a horse by the tail. But we have our ways.”
Dominique laughed. “What would he do without us?”
The two sisters shared a smile.
The pipe was soon burning tar, and Dominique dumped the ash in the lake. “I better go down to the cabin. I promised Ryland I’d give him the full story on Aubert.”
“What are you going to tell him?” asked Melisande.
Dominique tarried at the rail, grateful for an excuse to put off her conversation with the captain. “The truth. That Aubert was a traitor, who tried to steal the U.S. tribute payment on its way to Tunis. That he sank an American ship and killed American sailors. That he would have killed more if you and I hadn’t warned the men.”
“And?”
“And what? What else is there to tell?”
Melisande leaned close to her sister, keeping her voice low so the men in the rigging wouldn’t hear. “What he did to you for a start. How about that? He was a vicious bastard who hurt his own wife.”
“That’s not exactly true.” Dominique stared into the bowl of the pipe, wishing there was more tobacco. “Richard wasn’t like that—most of the time. He was often…very dashing.”
Melisande made a snorting sound as if she’d never heard something so ridiculous. “You’re defending him? After all he did, and after all he put you through…?”
“No, I’m not!” hissed Dominique. “I’m only saying…I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“You need to tell him everything, Dom. The men are passing rumors. Most of ’em saw Fancy French for the traitor he was. But I’m hearing a few whispers I don’t like. Whispers about a good captain betrayed by a treacherous wife. They need to know the truth.”
“What is the truth?” Dominique planted her hands on the rail. “What about the captain’s wife? I should have known what he was up to. I should have warned them sooner.”
“This isn’t your doing, Dom. You couldn’t have known what your no-good husband was up to.”
“The night I met the Marquis and Marquess Larocque on the Constitution…I was so happy. I thought, ‘I’m finally somebody. I’m finally part of elite society.’ Angele was the friend I wanted all my life. She had me on a string. I was a fool.”
“You aren’t a fool, Dom. Fancy people like that—they’re snakes. They lie for a living.”
“Maybe, but I believed them when they told me I was a countess. I wanted it to be true so badly…”
Melisande’s eyebrows perked up. “Eh? You said we’re countesses?”
“I’m a countess, I said.” Dominique gave her sister a wry smirk. “Why? That interest you?”
“No! Course not.” Melisande sputtered her lips and pretended to be fascinated with a clump of seaweed floating near the hull.
Dominique sighed. Possibly being the Countess of Provence—as Aubert claimed she was—had interested her. Bile churned in her stomach. There were clues about Aubert and the Larocques…clues she ignored. The truth was, her willful blindness helped send the Minerva crew to their deaths. “I could have stopped Richard. I could have saved those men on the Minerva—if only I hadn’t been so blind.”
Melisande laid her hand on Dominique’s. “Listen to me, big sis. You didn’t kill those sailors—Aubert did. And when you found out the truth, he tried to hurt you. He tried to force himself on you. And your warning at the Lake Fort saved us all. That’s what happened. That’s what you need to tell Ryland, oui?”
Dominique looked at her sister. She was surprised. It was rare for Melisande to be so serious—usually, everything was a joke to her. Her support was a welcome comfort. Dominique nodded. “Oui. I’ll tell him.” She pulled Melisande into an embrace.
“Golly.” Melisande went rigid at first, then returned the hug. “All this affection…this’ll take some getting used to.”
“Don’t get too used to it.” Dominique parted from the embrace and pinched her sister’s cheek. “You’re still a pain in the bum.”
Dominique looked over the gun one more time. John’s rakish brows didn’t so much as tremble in his repose. She felt the urge to plant a kiss on his forehead, but she didn’t dare wake him. If anyone deserved a few moments of rest, it was him. Besides, she had a report to deliver.
Dominique pocketed the cold pipe and headed for the cabin.
Chapter 56
Liberated American Snow Brig
The Lake of Tunis
Wednesday, September 14th, 1803
Day Five, Before Dawn
“Acting Lieutenant Sullivan,” said Ryland. “Good of you to come. Join us.”
“Aye, Captain,” said John as he walked into the captain’s cabin.
He joined seven men crowded around a waterworn table, most of them showing several days of beard shadow. Shadows from the lantern swayed over grim expressions as they studied a map. The quarters were much smaller than those of the Philadelphia, and John had to edge between the other officers to find a place. Beyond the stern windows, the water of the lake was black as night. Above the city, a cloud of smoke reflected the light of the burning granary.
John found himself between his father’s old sailing master, Thomas Keane, and a veteran seaman from the Philadelphia, Matthew Meadows. One, a man from his upbringing on the Wandering Hart, the other
, part of his new life in the United States Navy. It was a strange collision of his past and future.
Keane leaned close and whispered, “Good to see you, Mr. Sullivan. Your father always knew you were meant for great things.”
“Please, Tom,” John whispered back, “it’s just John to you.”
Keane returned a serious look. “No, Lieutenant, it isn’t. Not anymore.”
“He’s right about that, sir,” added Meadows under his breath. He wore the tarred top hat of a boatswain.
“Meadows,” smiled John. “New hat I see.”
“Aye, sir. Captain made me bosun.”
“Looks good on you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Paper crackled as Ryland moved his compass, candlestick, and a pewter mug to hold down the corners of the map. “Gentlemen, this is the Lake of Tunis.”
The assembled senior crew studied the points of interest on the lake. To the east lay the city of Tunis, the palace, and the wharves. To the north, the ruins of Carthage. At the center, the small island of the Lake Fort. To the west, the only way home: A channel cutting through a narrow spit of land, which connected the lake to the Mediterranean Sea. The waterway was only half a mile long and a hundred yards wide.
Buford loomed like a great shadow at the end of the table. Quartermaster Wilson, a fellow brag player from John’s days aboard Philadelphia, stood at the other end. Like many of Captain Bainbridge’s enemies, the muscular and rakish officer had been transferred to the Allegheny. Ryland stood at the center of the table across from John, flanked by Midshipman Merrick and newly-promoted Marine Sergeant Anderson.
“Our object is simple.” Ryland pointed to the channel. “We cross this passage and escape to the open sea, where the speed of our ship will outrun pursuers. Our problem is how to get there with our rigging still intact.” Ryland’s finger moved to a sketch of walls and cannons positioned on the north side of the isthmus, close to where the lake joined the channel. “This shore battery guards the channel and is armed with twelve powerful guns. And come the sunrise, we will be facing every vessel in Bey Hammuda’s harbor. That means twenty gunboats and ten larger ships, perhaps more, many of which will be blockading the channel. They’re mostly old and poorly armed, but we will be sorely outnumbered.”
“We have the best guns and the sturdiest ship,” said Midshipman Merrick, the gangly and timid officer John knew from the Philadelphia. He had always been an outsider, and as such became one of John’s few friends in the fleet. “We could make a run for it with the flood tide. Strike hard and break our way through the channel.”
“Don’t be daft,” said Quartermaster Wilson. Danger and hard work had a way of bringing out the scowl on Wilson, and this gathering was no exception. “We’ll never make it through that channel before the ships and shore guns tear up our rigging. If we lose even one spar, we’ll never have the speed to escape.”
“But the pirates will shoot us to pieces if we stay.”
“Hmm.” Buford folded his thick forearms across his chest. Ryland had made him the chief gunner. His beard and leather kaftan were a striking contrast to the rest of the crew. “That old hog Hammuda wants his ship back. His men will try to take us by boarding, lest they injure the pride of their fleet.”
“Which gives us an advantage,” said Ryland. “The pirates want to take the ship without sinking her, so we must use her agility to fight at a distance. We mustn’t let them pin us down and board.”
Quartermaster Wilson leaned over the table, puffing up his muscular chest. “Captain, I have a plan.”
“Please, Mr. Wilson.” Ryland waved a palm over the map.
Wilson pointed to the channel. “Our aim should be to sink the larger ships in their blockade. We’ll double-shot the guns and aim below the waterline. We also have a supply of signal rockets on board, and we’ll fire those into enemy rigging. They’re not incendiaries, but there’s a chance they’ll set the enemy sails ablaze. When we’re out of ammunition, we make a run for it. With a little luck, the battery will get only one volley before we escape to sea.”
John stared through the stern windows, toward the red glow of the granary fire. Wilson’s plan sounded sensible. Safe. Boring.
“A good plan, but risky,” said Ryland. “To make it past the battery with minimal damage, we’ll have to be fast.”
“Aye, Captain, exactly,” said Wilson. “Before we make our run for it, we’ll throw every bit of spare cargo overboard. We’ll need the ship as light as possible. Since our ammunition will be gone anyway, we’ll start with the guns.”
“Jettison the guns!” snapped John.
A mutter of concern passed among the others.
Quartermaster Wilson put up a placating hand. “I know the loss of twenty-six American guns is bitter medicine, but we are alone and outnumbered ten to one. I don’t see we have a choice.”
We don’t—if we follow your plan, John thought. He gave the quartermaster a charitable smile. “Your plan is good, Wilson. A carefully considered gambit. But I know these pirates. Their weapon is fear. This is no time for timid tactics.”
“Timid tactics?” Wilson sniffed, a cord tightening in his neck. “And what bold strategy do you suggest, Mr. Sullivan? Given your long Navy career of three months.”
Every face at the table swiveled to the acting first lieutenant.
“Hotshots, for a start,” said John.
“Heated shot?” said Ryland.
“The signal rockets are a waste of time. They aren’t powerful enough to burn ships. But with a few good hotshots, we can set that whole damn blockade on fire. We don’t run from the pirates, Mr. Wilson. We make them run from us.”
Wilson crossed his arms, jaw tight with chagrin. “And where do we heat this shot of yours?”
“The galley stove. We have a supply of coal aboard. Mr. Buford here is an accomplished blacksmith. He can get it hot enough.”
“Hmm,” said Buford.
“And what of the shore battery?” asked Sergeant Anderson, the new leader of the ship’s Marines.
“It won’t be a problem,” John continued. “Because a small party will swim ashore under cover of darkness and spike the guns. They will signal their success with a rocket, then hold out in the ruins of Carthage and wait for pickup.”
“But the battery will be crawling with Janissaries,” said Merrick. “And even if the shore party succeeds, they’ll be all alone in those ruins. They could find themselves surrounded and wiped out.”
“It’s a dangerous mission, true,” said John. “Which is why I’ll be leading them. Those guns will be silent. Count on it.”
“A fine, plan, Mr. Sullivan,” said Merrick.
“Hear, hear,” said Meadows.
“I volunteer for the shore party,” said Sergeant Anderson. He stepped closer to the table, a confident crease in his brow.
“You aren’t seriously considering this, Captain?” Wilson gaped at Ryland.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” Ryland replied. “I don’t relish the idea of being target practice for a shore battery.”
“And we’re just supposed to place all our lives in the hands of a Navy deserter?”
Keane and Meadows bristled at the remark but said nothing. Merrick shifted uncomfortably. Buford’s lazy eye stared at the lantern hanging over the table. It was surprising to find Wilson so hostile, given his friendliness with John and Ryland at the card table. But then, friends over a bottle weren’t necessarily friends under fire.
“Mr. Sullivan has acted with bravery and distinction,” said Ryland. “He’s the very reason we have this vessel. When we return to Gibraltar, he has agreed to face court-martial for his actions. In the meantime, Acting Lieutenant Sullivan is the first officer aboard this ship, under my command, and will be accorded the respect appropriate to his station.”
“Of course, Acting Captain Ryland,” said Wilson, feigning a smile. “And on that subject, why are you in command? Where is Captain Aubert?”
Ryland groun
d his jaw. For a moment, only the creaking of the ship broke the silence. “We all saw the castle collapse in the explosion. The captain and his traveling companions, Marquis and Marquess Larocque, were inside when it fell. You’ve all heard the rumors, and I might as well tell you: They’re true. Captain Aubert committed treason. He conspired to steal the tribute payment, sink the Minerva, and help Turk soldiers destroy the Lake Fort. His treachery led, quite justly, to his own demise.”
“What proof do you have of this?” demanded Wilson.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Ryland puffed out his lower lip. “One clue might be Captain Aubert sealing off the powder magazine, only for it to blow up shortly after. That, and the testimony of his own wife.”
“Hearsay!” Wilson scoffed. “From a woman known for her insolence toward the captain.”
“Watch your tongue,” John said. His voice was deadly. One wrong word from Wilson, and he’d be drawing his blade. “If it weren’t for Dominique, half this crew would be buried under rubble.”
Wilson narrowed his eyes at John. “And how do we know she isn’t the saboteur? Maybe she wanted to be rid of her husband. We’ve all heard the rumors.” Wilson gave a lurid smile. “They say she’s been on her back for more than one officer in the fleet.”
John’s rapier scraped halfway out of its sheath. He moved toward Wilson, but Meadows and Keane held him back.
“Easy now, lad,” said Meadows.
“That’s enough!” shouted Ryland. “Mr. Sullivan, restrain yourself. Mr. Wilson, hold your tongue. The guilt or innocence of our captain is a matter for the court-martial. We have bigger problems. Until such time as we rejoin the fleet, you will all obey the chain of command, or you will shot for mutiny. Is that clear?”
Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat Page 46
