THIRTY-NINE
ZABANA RETURNED TO ALGIERS WITH THIRTY-FOUR SLAVES. THE LAST ship he’d taken, a Maltese trader, carried the captain’s wife. Zabana had attempted to rape her the first night she was aboard, but the woman had fought back valiantly, even producing a knife to defend herself—whereupon Zabana figured she wasn’t worth the trouble and had her chained in the hold. At some point the next night one of his crew had snuck below decks and raped her himself, as she wasn’t able to defend herself because she was chained. Serpent eventually reached port and all the slaves were taken ashore to a pen in the bagnio to be held until they were sold. Likely, not long.
Mustapha Pasha personally congratulated Zabana on his good fortune and, indeed, on the good fortune of all the returning corsairs. Over 150 Christians had been taken by Zabana’s fleet and not half the corsairs had returned from their cruises to Northern Europe. Zabana took his own tally, of course, and noted that Rogers and Hasim had not returned yet. He expected to see them at any time, however, as food and water would be a problem by now. He did not expect them to disappoint him.
After meeting Zabana at the quay, Mustapha’s entourage slowly made its way up the bent streets to his palace. It was guarded day and night by palace guards he had handpicked for the job, not fully trusting the powerful janissaries. A coup had left his predecessor dead, strangled by those very elite soldiers.
The dey was a fatalist who knew he served as ruler at the pleasure of the sultan of the Ottoman Empire in Constantinople, and he sent monthly gifts to stay in the sultan’s good graces. One of Zabana’s corsairs had captured a timber ship, another a trader carrying ceramics, and both ships would be sent to the sultan to curry his favor. He’d noticed a woman among Zabana’s captures, and he would send her as a gift, as well.
As he entered the gleaming qasba, the dey looked out over the rampart to the harbor below. His view overlooked both the upper and lower cities on the hillside and the homes of their inhabitants, a mixed group of shop owners and tradesmen, barterers, and merchants of all stripes who kept Algiers vibrant and teeming. Most of them owned slaves, from many to one, and they were a ready market for the new slaves just captured.
As he looked over the rooftops to the harbor he was hoping to see a French ship, perhaps a brig or frigate, but he did not. He was expecting a message from Napoleon Bonaparte himself to confirm an agreement long whispered but never enacted. It would make the dey wealthier than any dey had ever been; wealthier than even the sultan in Constantinople, perhaps. The dey rubbed his beard and smiled to himself.
At word from Bonaparte he would set Zabana and his corsairs on the British like hounds on a fox.
Zabana had not left Serpent to go ashore yet, for he had a punishment to carry out. He had learned through an informant of the rape of the Maltese captain’s wife, and he was incensed. Truthfully, he might have also been embarrassed that one of his crewmen had accomplished what he hadn’t. This was a serious assault on Zabana’s pride and would require a serious punishment. He called for the beheading cart.
The quaking prisoner had to be forcibly dragged from below decks where he had been kept in chains. He was naked and whimpering and wailing by turns, pleading for forgiveness. But his captain was not a forgiving man.
The beheading cart stood ready, the evil blade high in the air, silent and cold. The man was led to the cart and placed in position before it on his knees while a sword tip pricked the back of his neck lest he pull away. Zabana’s eyes showed no emotion as he raised his face to heaven. In truth, this would be a lesson for all the crew to learn. One they would never forget.
Two guards held the poor man in position and pulled his arms behind his back. The man was crying and praying at the same time, begging for mercy and forgiveness—but none would be forthcoming.
At Zabana’s nod the blade came hurtling down in a blur, smoothly and silently, past the prisoner’s wincing face to cut off his testicles, which were lying in the cradle.
FORTY
IN THE MIDDLE 1700S GIBRALTAR BECAME A MAJOR TRADING PORT FOR goods from North America, Europe, and the Mediterranean, as well as a base for the Royal Navy and a garrison for British troops. Its strategic military importance was obvious, being the gateway to all of North Africa and the countries bordering the Mediterranean. Ships carrying wine, cotton, spices, tobacco, timber, and a host of mercantile goods regularly sailed into the port, there to be unloaded by immigrants from around the world seeking relief from poverty or war in their home countries. Gibraltar was at the head of the Mediterranean, the busiest international trading center in the world.
Rascal glided into the port of Gibraltar on a dying afternoon breeze to find hundreds of ships anchored there in various stages of loading or unloading. It was a breathtaking sight, and Rascal’s captain and crew gawked at such a collection of shipping as they had never seen, not even in Boston.
Fallon could see two Royal Navy ships, the frigate Mischief and the brig Helena, anchored near the shore and, presumably, the custom houses and government buildings. To see only two Royal Navy ships surprised Fallon; the war with France and Spain was consuming much of the navy’s sea-going arsenal.
“Beauty, please secure the ship and then have my gig lowered over the side,” he said. “I want to row around the harbor while there is still light.”
In the event, the gig was soon lowered and Fallon and Aja descended into it and cast off. The first ship they came to was an American merchant ship, Margaret, and her captain stood at the larboard railing as Fallon’s gig glided up.
“Ahoy, captain!” called Fallon, “I trust you had a good voyage from America?”
“That we did, sir,” replied the captain. “We are here waiting to offload our sugar and take dates and olives off a ship from Tunis. We dare not sail to Tunis just now so Tunis must come to us!”
“It is too dangerous, I take it, for Americans in the Mediterranean?” asked Fallon, though he thought he knew the answer.
“Aye, I’ll not take a chance on becoming a prisoner and losing my ship. It’s all I have in the world.”
Fallon waved goodbye and ordered Aja to steer for a large trader lying more in the center of the harbor. A water hoy was alongside so perhaps the trader was soon to weigh, and go where? Anywhere in the world was possible. The hoy’s crew were a mixed lot of immigrants, including some Muslims in their robes and caftans, all doing the work of the harbor.
A large man at the ship’s waist was supervising the loading of barrels of water and looked up with curiosity as Fallon’s gig approached. As the hoy cast off the gig took her place alongside the trader.
“I am Captain Nicholas Fallon of the British privateer Rascal, sir. I am seeking any information as to the situation in the Mediterranean relative to armed corsairs.”
“I am Benetti, first mate of the Portuguese trader Corfu, sir, and I’m afraid the Mediterranean is aflame with unrest, captain. We are to pick up wine at Sanary-sur-Mer on the French coast but first we must get there, and the corsairs seem to be taking Christians where they find them. I spoke to a Dutchman off Cadiz and understand a Maltese ship was taken just last week and all aboard were taken off, including the captain’s wife. I have heard nothing but disturbing news since we arrived here from London. Where are you bound, Captain?”
“I was planning to call at Algiers but after listening to you I’m not so sure,” said Fallon. “I am hoping to get more information when I go ashore in the morning.”
“Yes, the dock is full of gossip and captains trading it,” said Benetti. “Have a care, Captain Fallon.” And with that, the Italian disappeared into his ship.
Next, Fallon was rowed to Mischief, 44, and stood in the sternsheets and announced himself. Momentarily, a lieutenant’s head appeared over the quarterdeck railing and invited Fallon aboard. He went up the side easily and was met by that same lieutenant, Gerard, who offered to show him below to Captain Elliot’s cabin.
Captain Hieronymus Elliot was a middle-aged man, thin to the point o
f bones and tight flesh; indeed, his stiff uniform seemed to hold him together. He coolly welcomed Fallon into his cabin and bade him sit while he hailed his steward for some wine. Fallon studied the cabin which, like its occupant, was spare and unprepossessing. He wondered at his host’s financial circumstances, or perhaps he was merely penurious.
“What can I do for you, Captain Fallon?” asked Elliott, sitting down behind his desk. “I was made aware you had sailed in on a schooner and I’ve been expecting you, frankly.”
“I have on board an American,” replied Fallon, “who was notified almost a year ago that his father had been captured by the dey of Algiers’ corsairs and could be ransomed. The American is a fisherman and has raised the money the dey demanded but lost his ship in a storm. I offered to bring him to ransom his father but was attacked by two corsairs several days ago. We were flying British colors quite plainly, so I am obviously wondering if Great Britain’s treaty with the dey is still in effect.”
Captain Elliot smiled a rueful sort of smile and leaned forward in his chair.
“What of your battle with the corsairs?” the captain asked, a hint of suspicion or disbelief in his voice. He had heard of no corsairs taking British ships.
It would not do to gloat over sinking two corsairs, so Fallon answered matter-of-factly that, indeed, both corsairs were sunk in the battle, but that the wind had helped dismast one of them. He did not mention that the other one had been bombed, fearing Elliot would think it fantastical.
“I see,” said Elliot, but his blank expression suggested he did not see at all. He knew the corsairs to be wily fighters and could not imagine how a lone schooner could defeat two of them. However, it was fair to say imagination was not his strong suit.
“Well, Great Britain has a treaty with all the regencies,” he said with a sniff, “so I can see no reason why you should have been attacked.” This was the same to Fallon’s ears as: You are lying, and it made him furious.
“Sir, the fact is we were attacked by two corsairs, and we are most certainly British,” said Fallon defiantly. “I came to you to ask for protection getting into Algiers.” Fallon was quite aware that he was sitting on a frigate and a brig was at anchor nearby.
“Admiral Lord Keith is supporting the Austrians against Masséna at Genoa,” said Elliot with a sigh. “My orders are not to leave Gibraltar undefended until the fleet returns. Until then…” He spread his hands in the universal sign of What can I do?
“You seem quite capable, captain,” he continued condescendingly, “I have no doubt you’ll manage to get your man out of Algiers.”
Fallon could only stare at the floor in anger. He rose, his wine untouched, and with a few words left Elliot’s great cabin. He was none the wiser for having come.
As he dropped into his gig it was clear to him that he was on his own.
FORTY-ONE
IN A MATTER OF DAYS RENEGADE WEIGHED, CARRYING FOUR MONTHS-worth of supplies: over five hundred barrels of beef, pork, flour and meal; seven hundred bushels of beans and potatoes; some forty tons of rice, fish, cheese, candles, soap, bread and butter; eighteen hundred gallons of molasses, vinegar, and lamp oil; and over six thousand gallons of rum. All this plus every orange, lemon, and pineapple that could be crammed into whatever space was available, which was quite a lot.
The big ship plunged into the Atlantic under a dome of blue sky fringed with puffy clouds like the white hair around an old man’s bald head. Jones had Renegade carrying every sail consonant with the eighteen knot breeze. He ran his ship according to the book. It was a taut ship, a good ship, not too harsh, not too lenient, a model Royal Navy ship. Admiral Davies had no worry for the men’s health or happiness on Renegade with Jones in command, for they seemed cheerfully accepting of their lot as underpaid, overworked, prone-to-death by broadside sailors. It was a remarkable testament to the average jack that he could find comfort in tedious routine, cheer in harsh conditions and endure ship’s fare that the average British citizen couldn’t stomach, hot or cold. In fact, Royal Navy tars could withstand almost anything, any deprivation except the loss of their tot of rum. Harsh captains who stopped a crew’s rum had been known to face mutiny.
Sir William Huntington-James had come aboard in the forenoon and Jones had seen him settled in his cabin—the first lieutenant’s quarters being made available for him—and invited him to dinner that evening. Jones was naive to intrigue and curious about what exactly Sir William did. And how he went about it. He didn’t expect to learn much but perhaps something would come out over wine.
Davies had shared the dispatch from the Admiralty with Jones, though he noted it hadn’t stated when the siege of Gibraltar was contemplated, or whether the dey of Algiers’ role was crucial. Davies expressed that it probably wasn’t, but it would certainly make things more difficult for the Royal Navy. Sixty corsairs turning their attention to British ships would make resupplying Gibraltar virtually impossible by sea given the scattered forces under the Admiralty’s command.
It took all of Great Britain’s armed cutters, sloops, brigs, frigates, and ships-of-the-line just to maintain blockades along the French coastline and bring pressure to bear on Bonaparte at sea. One more theatre of action would likely prove too much and stretch Great Britain too far. One had only to look at the outrageous treaties with the Barbary regencies to realize that if Great Britain had the ships to control the Mediterranean it would never pay to purchase peace. Every corsair would be sunk without quarter and every palace bombed to the ground.
The thought of Great Britain’s acquiescence to the Barbary pirates confused Jones, who knew nothing of world affairs, particularly a world so alien to his own. But perhaps he would learn a great deal at dinner with Sir William.
He paced the windward side of the ship and thought of his friend Nicholas Fallon, weeks ahead of him and perhaps even now through the Strait. No doubt Sir William would want to know exactly what Fallon intended in the Mediterranean.
The thing was, Jones had no idea.
Several days spent in Gibraltar getting provisions on board and Fallon knew little more than he’d already learned. The customs official seemed as confused as everyone else as to the dey’s intentions, but that was not unusual. The dey depends on the day, he’d said without humor. At a question about Zabana the customs official stiffened. He was, the official said, rapacious, literally living on prey.
Beauty was able to procure a longboat to replace the one blown up and Cully restocked the shot locker. Barrels of water and sacks of biscuit had also come aboard. In all respects, Rascal was ready for sea, except that the sea in question was the Mediterranean and Fallon had not yet settled on a plan for entering Algiers.
After a great deal of pacing the deck he decided to leave Rascal hove-to off the harbor’s entrance, flying the tricolor, and go ashore in his gig as a French privateer capitaine; well, being British was certainly no guarantee of safe passage. As far as he knew, the French were on good terms with the Barbary regencies and he spoke French well enough to fool all but a Frenchman. Once ashore, he would endeavor to find O’Brien or even the British consul and seek their advice. At all accounts it seemed wise to keep their mission a secret until he had the lay of the land. If the dey knew there was a fortune in gold aboard a ship outside his harbor Fallon’s options would considerably narrow.
He reviewed the plan with Beauty, Aja, Barclay, and Visser at dinner and no one had a better idea. Visser was noticeably quiet, and it seemed to Fallon that now that he was so close he was losing his hope, or perhaps he was just overcome with apprehension at what they would find in Algiers.
In truth, Fallon hadn’t a clue.
Zabana grew impatient for the return of Hasim and Rogers. They should have already sailed into Algiers with slaves, or at least with excuses, but the fact that they were not back didn’t worry him as much as it made him angry.
He was not alone. The dey’s good humor had vanished after the first corsair successes and the subsequent auction and he now sen
t a messenger to Serpent daily to ask when Zabana was going to leave his garden again.
So Zabana had gotten his ship ready for sea once more. Stores had been brought aboard and the beheading cart’s blade was polished and sharpened in full view of the crew as an instructional aid to discipline. At last the ship was ready to leave Algiers again and Zabana left his mistress’s warm bed and walked down the zagged streets to the quay. He stood for a moment judging his ship’s lines. She was full of stores and would need to be balanced just so to sail her best. Satisfied that Serpent looked ready for sea he boarded the ship from the quay and called all hands to make sail.
Zabana walked the deck as Serpent slowly gathered speed and soon sailed west into the morning, towards the Strait, for he wanted to see if there was any sign of his two missing corsairs.
FORTY-TWO
RASCAL WEIGHED AND LEFT GIBRALTAR UNDER LOWERING CLOUDS. THE dark, heavy sky looked troubled enough to moan or perhaps cry soon. It was still early and there was very little wind and the air was humid and heavy. Several crewmen looked astern at Gibraltar, and safety, receding into a blur of masts and mist and mountain.
Fallon watched Aja put the ship’s boys to work polishing the brass and copper fittings about the binnacle and deck. Little Eddy fit right in and seeing him at tasks with the other youngsters was a natural thing not to be wondered at. He was recovering from the falling block and had only purplish bruises to show for it. He seemed to be back to his old self.
His old self meant tricks and pranks; yet somehow whatever mischief he caused, and there was believed to be a lot of it, never led back to him. A rat in a sea chest, a loose tie on a swinging cot that mysteriously came undone, a wet nightshirt. These incidents and more amused the crew and kept them guessing what would come next. Fallon thought back to his own beginning as a ship’s boy but couldn’t remember being as clever as Little Eddy, particularly at not getting caught.
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