Golden Dragon (Code Black Book 1)

by V. E. Ulett

  Golden Dragon

  by

  V.E. Ulett

  Golden Dragon

  Copyright © 2016 by Eva Ulett

  ISBN: 978-0-9981131-1-1

  Cover design by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design

  Publisher's Note:

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  Chapter One

  On a bright August morning Miriam Kodio Blackwell made a slow and seemingly purposeless circuit to the end of the quay facing the Bay of Algiers. Men trundled barrels of wine and oil to the waiting ships, and stacked bales of tobacco secured with fibre cord near the ships’ gangways. Bleating goats and poultry squawking in their cages protested the fate of becoming ship’s stores. Miriam carefully avoided the most crowded areas of loading and unloading, wearing a burqa that concealed her from head to ankles. Moving with a stooped and old gait, Miriam’s youthful mind focused on the Dey of Algiers’ fleet at anchor in port, and on a knot of Englishmen near a boat at the end of the quay.

  She carried a market basket heavy with figs, dates, citrus fruits, jars of oysters cured in spiced oil, and other sundries. Miriam set it down on the wooden walkway while she gazed at the Algerian navy, all in port. Four 44-gun frigates, five large corvettes of 24 to 30 guns apiece, and several score of gun and mortar boats. From the age of ten, when she was evacuated out of Ceuta in a British Royal Navy ship, Miriam felt an especial connection to ships and she’d made a study of them. James Blackwell, the captain of that British warship was the brother of Miriam’s step-father, the diplomat Francis Blackwell. Through Francis, Miriam retained connections to both the British navy and foreign service.

  It was the British foreign service Miriam turned to when Iran became too hot for her. The young English captain Miriam observed now pacing beside his gig, tied up to the quay under a flag of truce, was in an uncomfortable position as well. He was surrounded by the enemy, and awaiting the Dey’s pleasure. Since it was the head of a clandestine branch of the British diplomatic service that arranged Miriam’s passage from Iran to France and then Algiers, she knew of the confrontation looming between the Dey of Algiers and the British.

  She was there to play her part in the conflict, and with a halting shuffle Miriam moved toward the handsome English captain. He was the unfortunate messenger sent to carry the British list of demands to the Dey, ruler of the fortified City of Algiers. The Dey was holding nineteen British hostages. An entire boat’s crew, including a surgeon and two midshipmen, had been stopped, seized, and were being kept under guard. The British consul and his family were also sequestered, at the consul’s residence in Algiers. Miriam stepped into the path the English captain was wearing in the planks of the quay.

  Arriving in his circuit back at his gig, the English captain trod on the hem of Miriam’s long robe. Arrested in mid-stride they both staggered, Miriam’s market basket flying from her grasp.

  “I beg your pardon, madam.”

  The captain reached out and gripped Miriam by the upper arm to steady her. A surprised expression came over his face as his long elegant fingers closed on her rounded flesh, not the flab and bone of an old woman he’d been expecting. He peered at Miriam, ducking his head as he tried to examine her through the covering of her burqa.

  “St. George or St. Denis?” he said, gently releasing Miriam’s arm.

  “St. George, in course,” she replied.

  The captain gave a nod to his coxswain, who discreetly lifted a woven basket from the gig to the planks of the quay.

  “What say you to Code Black?” The captain’s voice was full of authority.

  “Kodio Blackwell at your service, sir.”

  His rigid posture and stern stare relaxed at once. The captain’s tone became familiar, as though they’d just been presented at a country ball. “May I say, your English is perfect. I thought it all great mummery, this part of the mission, when his lordship—” The captain coughed, recollecting himself. “My name is Dashwood, ma’am, Captain Dashwood of HMS Prometheus. It is my boat’s crew the Dey has thrown in his dungeon. I was told to offer any assistance possible to you, ma’am.”

  “The family names of the Dey’s ministers, then, if you please. And directions to the residence of the British consul.”

  As Dashwood spoke, pronouncing the foreign names with difficulty, Miriam bent over the baskets. She appeared not to be attending to him, meanwhile shifting a length of cotton cloth from her basket to cover the contents of the one he’d brought.

  She straightened, but not to her full height, and stood before him in a bent posture, his basket on her arm.

  “How long have you been waiting, if I may be so bold, Captain Dashwood?”

  “Two hours, or very near.”

  She was silent a moment, and then lifted her chin slightly and allowed Dashwood’s soft eyes to met her gaze. “Return to your ship, Raiz,” she said. “It’s the most prudent course. You have been made to wait long enough, it is an insult in the Arab world. Send to the Dey that you shall return tomorrow for his response, when you must also collect the young gentlemen taken from your command.”

  He stared at her, trying to catch her eye again.

  “Peace be with you, infidel.”

  She hobbled slowly away after uttering this phrase in Arabic, and melted into the crowd of bearers on the quay. A refined gentleman like Captain Dashwood would appreciate the basket of delicate edibles she’d left him, and possibly even the two bottles of scented rose water.

  It cost Miriam a great deal of maneuvering to be admitted to the presence of the British consul, and when she was at last led in to Lord Elgin she thought the joy on his face at sight of her would give the game away. The captain of the guards implanted on the British, Shakeel Ahmed Ansari, was a sharp-eyed, hawk nosed creature. She’d presented herself to him as Miriam Albuyeh, sent by Saud Kodio, minister and first cousin to the Dey of Algiers. Captain Ansari was an old experienced soldier, unmoved by beautiful dark eyes or a well shaped ankle, and as keen as his raptor features. Miriam didn’t exactly trade on the name of Kodio; she was the daughter of the former Dey of Oran, Ali Khosrow ibn Kodio, whose throat was cut by his brother; she merely impressed upon Ansari both the Kodio’s punctilio and their inclination toward vengeance. Fortunately, Lord Elgin recovered before Captain Ansari noticed anything amiss.

  “I thought you were to bring a wet nurse, Captain,” Lord Elgin cried. “This maid is barely out of leading strings.”

  “Calm yourself. It is not easy to find one in a city that is being evacuated of women and children,” Ansari said. “Allow me to present Miss Miriam Albuyeh, sent by the Dey’s ministers to safeguard the honor of your lady wife and daughter. Since your own servants have seen fit to accept the Dey’s generous invitation to quit your employ.”

  A baby’s loud wailing started up in another part of the house, and both men cringed.

  “Perhaps you would be so good, Captain,” Miriam said, “as to send for ass’s or goat’s milk. Whichever may be easier to come by, while I become acquainted with the household?”

  Shakeel Ahmed Ansari bowed, eager to take his leave.

  “Merry Blackwell!” Lord Elgin said, once they were alone. “How glad I am to see you.”

  “How do you do, Lord Elgin,” Miriam said, unsure how she felt about anyone besides he
r step-father Francis using that name. It was his ironic little joke, since Miriam had never been exactly merry. “And how are Lady Elgin and Fanny? I do not need to ask how your dear son does, the poor baby.”

  “I shall take you to them directly, and to meet little Tommy. But first please do be seated. I would offer you refreshment, but we are utterly at the mercy of our heathen hosts for viands. What a welcome sight you are, Miss Blackwell, for I make sure you were sent by Lord Q.”

  “Oh yes,” Miriam said, “of course I was. Government is demanding an indemnity for the massacre of the Italian fishermen, and the liberation of Christian slaves, along with the immediate release of yourself and all British subjects.”

  Miriam observed the unhappy purse of Lord Elgin’s lips, and inwardly she sighed. “I am sent to escort your wife and daughter out before the bombing of the City commences. Lord Exmouth and the English and Dutch fleets come for you, sir, and Captain Dashwood’s men.”

  A smile lit the diplomat’s face, over news that the enemy’s actions should have already confirmed to him. Were they not preparing for a siege? She supposed Lord Elgin needed reassurance that his government was sending more than just a woman to his aid.

  The pitch of the baby’s cry changed to one of desperation. Miriam would have been astonished to see Lord Elgin sitting with hands folded before his child’s distress, in an attitude of intense inward concentration, had she not seen the like a hundred times before. She rose. “Allow me to check on that milk, sir.”

  Miriam didn’t find the cook house deserted, though Lord Elgin’s personal servants may have fled. She paused before entering and making her presence known, to observe the people. A man whose tight turban rested atop a mountain of cheek and jowl was in charge, and speaking the loudest. “...and His Highness has invited the City to watch the destruction of the heathen ships. The English sailors will be white washing the palace walls by evening prayers!” His audience, a kitchen boy and two sous chefs, guffawed.

  “Ah, Hanim!” the fat cook cried out to Miriam, the moment she set foot in the kitchen. “We have been expecting you. The good Captain Ansari left specific orders. He has gone away, you see, to attend to the disposition of his guns and men. He is given command of a pair of guns of the middle battery guarding the North Mole. A most honored position, Allah be praised.”

  Miriam inclined her head and made the appropriate noises. The cook wanted her to notice his pride in following Captain Ansari, he was not a common servant or house slave.

  “The milk for the babe?” she said.

  One of the assistant chefs lifted a spoonful of the milk he stirred in a saucepan over the fire, for Miriam to taste.

  Nodding her approval, Miriam said, “But, oh! What to put it in?”

  “With respect, hanim.” The cook stepped forward. “I, Atif Mehmood, am responsible for provisioning and feeding Captain Ansari’s regiment. Sometimes a goat’s kid will refuse the teat, and a baby goat being a valuable creature, why! in that case I will use this.”

  He brought from behind his back, with a little flourish, a jar ready filled with the good warm milk. Fastened over the top with much knotted twine was the end of a prophylactic, if Miriam did not mistake.

  Miriam stared at Atif Mehmood, her expression placid and neutral. She searched but found no cunning jest, no awkward misplaced lasciviousness in the cook’s demeanor. His smile widened when she reached out and took the jar he offered. In her slender hand it looked even more abominable.

  “I thank you, Atif Mehmood, and so will the babe. Direct me to the apartment with my dunnage, if you please,” Miriam said.

  The cook bowed to her, and straightened with a self-satisfied smile.

  Back in the cool luxury of the British consul’s residence, the first thing that greeted Miriam was the baby’s cry. She followed the sound of the wailing to the door of a sitting room, and knocked.

  No response came from within, though Miriam heard the rustling of skirts and the baby’s uninterrupted howling. She opened the door and stepped over the threshold.

  “Miss Blackwell?” Lady Elgin declared, starting up. “We thought it was those filthy heathens, we never willingly admit them to our presence. I cannot tell you how happy I am to see a friendly face.”

  Miriam gazed over at the baby, who lay sprawling and kicking, shrieking himself red, upon the sofa.

  “How do you do, Ma’am? How do you do, Fanny? This must be little Tommy.”

  “My precious boy!” Lady Elgin cried, though she didn’t move to comfort him. “How can the Dey be so cruel as to make a little child suffer so? Yet he must have something of humanity, for he has allowed you to come to us in our hour of need.”

  Miriam went to sit beside the shrieking child, set down the jar of milk, and cast her eye about the room. She discovered her own basket in a corner, and suppressed the urge to go over and make sure the contents had not been disturbed.

  “Miss Fanny, is there any such thing as a sewing basket in the room?”

  Fanny instantly brought her own work basket, and Miriam extracted a pair of small shears. With a little purse of her lips, Miriam nipped the end of the prophylactic. She gathered up the squalling Tommy, pinned his flailing arms and legs against her body, and pointed the pierced end of the shield into his mouth.

  The poor child, yellow and skinny though he was, latched onto the artificial nipple. Tommy sucked fiercely, shaking his head as though tearing meat from the bone. She forced him to take breath every so often by lowering the jar so no milk was flowing. Just when he was set to shriek again, Miriam raised the jar to continue his meal.

  “Why do you tease him so?” Lady Elgin demanded. “Let the poor child have all he wishes. Send to those blackguards to prepare more milk.”

  But on her lowering the milk jar just as Lady Elgin finished her outcry, Tommy’s eyes rolled back in ecstasy. His lips continued to move in a sucking motion, and gradually Miriam fed him the last of the milk. Growing up in the Dey of Oran’s harem, amid an extended family of half brothers and sisters, someone always had a baby. Miriam was accustomed to their ways.

  Tommy’s loud belch as Miriam held him up against her shoulder was punctuated by a tap on the door. Lord Elgin ducked his head around the door, and Lady Elgin and Fanny at once jumped to their feet crying out. Only Miriam remained seated with the sleeping baby on her shoulder. Tommy had apparently been both hungry and exhausted.

  “You are a godsend, Miss Blackwell,” Lord Elgin said, leading his two ladies to seats near her.

  He caught sight of the instrument with which Miriam had been succoring his son, and frowned.

  “Just what I was saying!” Lady Elgin said. “The Dey has been kind in sending a nurse, and I am not ungrateful believe me, Miss Blackwell. But what about us? How long are we to remain captives?”

  Lady Elgin made great cow eyes at Lord Elgin, who glanced at Miriam. Miriam eased Tommy onto the sofa, placing pillows round to close him in.

  “I was not sent by the Dey, your ladyship,” Miriam said. “Though that is what I told your guards.”

  She rose and retrieved her basket. Bringing it back to her seat, Miriam quickly reviewed the contents. Underneath a bolt of homespun cloth and the burqa she’d been wearing, were Miriam’s second gown, and, below a false bottom in the basket, two complete British midshipman’s uniforms. Minus the side arms, in course.

  “Tomorrow you and I and Miss Fanny will meet Prometheus’s boat at the quay, and Captain Dashwood will carry you to Gibraltar.” Miriam lifted a naval jacket and breeches from the bottom of the basket. “Disguised, wearing these.”

  Lady Elgin gave a gasp, and Fanny a slight squeal. Both women’s gazes flew to Lord Elgin, who sadly nodded.

  “Indeed, it must be so,” he said. “Even the heathens are evacuating their women. That is why there is to be no wet nurse.”

  “What of you, Thomas, are you to remain a prisoner? And little Tommy!” Lady Elgin flew to the baby, and mashed his pillows against him. “I will not leave my ba
by!”

  Once again Lord Elgin turned to Miriam.

  “Orders are for the women,” Miriam said. “You and Miss Fanny, to be brought out.”

  Much had been left in her own hands, which was what she preferred. Lord Q wanted the British consul, his family, and suite entire got out, if possible. To smuggle out the British consul would be a near impossibility, Miriam felt, and his baby son’s presence in the house was some protection and safeguard for the father. That was what the British did not realize.

  “Orders! What do I care for orders!”

  “Please, Constance, do try to calm down. For the baby’s sake.” Lord Elgin glanced fearfully at Tommy, lest the fuss wake him.

  Tommy frowned in his sleep.

  “I will not be moved, and so I warn you.” Lady Elgin glared at Lord Elgin and Miriam. “Unless Tommy is to go too.” She sat eagerly forward, turning her back on the baby. “We can hide him in a basket. Much like your own, Miss Blackwell, except with a lid.”

  “He will cry, your ladyship, and give us all away,” Miriam said. “What Captain Ansari’s men will do if we are discovered, I cannot tell.”

  Whatever it was the retribution would be worse for her than for her ladyship and Fanny.

  “You can give him a sleeping draught,” Lady Elgin enthused. “You people are skilled at potions and elixirs, are you not?”

  Miriam stared at her, an even, level gaze revealing nothing of her inward feelings. Her hand itched to deal out a slap. Slaps for being an ignorant, insolent sod she’d also seen plenty of in the harem. The scandal and unwanted union she’d fled in Iran, the reasons Miriam became involved with these British aristocrats, were now a distant evil. Whereas the mortification of that phrase you people, was very much a present one.

  Chapter Two

  Dashwood paced the quay once more, trailed by a slight young midshipman from the flagship Queen Charlotte. Prometheus’s own two young gentlemen continued to enjoy the Dey’s hospitality. Since their meeting the day before, the little enigma in veiled garb, Miss Kodio Blackwell, was much on Dashwood’s mind. He constantly scanned the crowd hoping to catch sight of a dark flashing gaze, from the most enchanting pair of eyes.