The Henry was well furnished with ordnance and carried few passengers as its main purpose was to help subdue the pirates, while also carrying the King’s mail. Many letters were destined for the garrison at Tangier as well as those for the ambassador in Constantinople. Ethan, in a surfeit of enthusiasm about his knowledge, told Christopher that Christians were enslaved in many places: in Morocco, Tunisia and Algiers as well as elsewhere. Some letters being carried were to the son of a friend of his, who had been in the English navy until his ship had been sunk and he had fallen into the hands of the slavers.
‘The conditions are truly dreadful,’ Ethan told him. ‘They have very little food, and in his recent letter he said that a dreadful pestilence occurs every summer, which last year carried off above 1,800 Christians. My friend is offering to ransom his son, but so far there has been no response. Now he tries a more generous offer.’ Ethan noticed Christopher’s appalled expression and tried to ameliorate his insensitivity. ‘But your son would not be given men’s work,’ he added hastily. ‘Besides, you say he is in Constantinople. In that great city things will be very different. Much better, I am sure.’
Ethan had a rosy look about him. Christopher could imagine that he had never wanted for anything, nor suffered any ill treatment. However little he understood Christopher’s anguish, he was a good-hearted soul and obviously wished to be friends. Christopher had always been something of a loner and without friends for a long time. Indeed, he had more or less ceased to see the need for them, not being ready to admit even to himself that was how he regarded his servants. Ethan ignored his ambivalence, and Christopher found himself won over by the time the sea turned from green to blue and they entered the Mediterranean.
‘Did you know that the City of London still distrusts the King in the matter of business,’ Ethan told Christopher one morning as they took the air.
‘I did not. Perhaps that is why you have passage on one of his ships,’ said Christopher. ‘To help alter the city’s mind?’
‘I think it is more to do with the number of times I visited the Admiralty and left certain small gifts,’ Ethan replied with a smile. ‘Almost anything is to be had for the right price.’
Christopher thought of the purse in his cabin and wondered not for the first time if he had the price for his son’s freedom. As if Ethan could hear his friend’s thoughts, he spoke again in a kindly voice. ‘When you have your son restored to you will you look for business opportunities in Constantinople?’
‘I am unlikely to have the means to do it,’ said Christopher, ‘but if I did I think I would be cautious. I remember my father-in-law telling me about the fever to speculate in tulips that made and broke so many men in Holland before I was born.’
‘Caution is good,’ said Ethan, ‘but a good businessman knows when to be brave and take a gamble.’
Ethan had been to Constantinople once before, when he was a boy. That trip with his father had made a huge impression on him, as Christopher could tell.
‘It is,’ said Ethan one fine afternoon, ‘a place of mournful cries and needle-like towers. You will see faces there the like of which you will never have seen before. It is a place of wealth and splendour, squalor and filth.’
‘It is a place,’ growled the captain, who happened to be nearby and was not inclined to poetry, ‘of shifting currents and cursed morning mists. We will need to engage a good pilot, who will no doubt attempt to cheat us by demanding double his usual rate because we are Christians. But first we must get there.’
These were beautiful but dangerous waters. Sudden squalls could founder a ship if her captain was not vigilant and the north coast was prey to the pirates.
‘Villages on the Spanish coast have all but vanished,’ said the captain. ‘So many have lost their inhabitants to slavery. The majority of the population has gone inland where it is safer. But the Henry is a swift vessel and well protected by her cannon. The pirates prefer easier prey. They have come to fear the English navy, as well they might.’
The night before they reached their destination, Christopher went to his bed and could not sleep. Terrible images came into his mind. He had managed so far to thrust most thoughts of the privations and horrors of slavery into the back of his brain, but now they came crawling out, and every vision had his young son’s face upon it. Abel pulling a cart, his bare feet cut on the sharp stones of the road, his back lacerated by the slaver’s whip. Abel in the palace, not waiting gracefully at table, well fed and clothed, but Abel sent to the harem, castrated and left to live or not, to be a slave to the women, or else his mutilated body cast outside the palace walls to rot where it lay.
At length Christopher could bear it no longer. He got up and felt his way on deck. As he paced, he cast his mind back to the day when his dear son had disappeared. What had happened to him between that evening and the day, months later, when he had suddenly appeared, as if by magic, at the gate in the cellar? Where had he been? What had he been doing? He had grown, that much was clear, and he had been brown and weathered. He had been out in the air, not confined in some cell. He had been thin, but not emaciated. He had been so very, so suddenly alive! And then, almost instantly, he had been wrenched away again.
To his shame, after Abel’s first disappearance, Christopher had privately tried to make himself believe that his son had gone for ever. He knew that was what his servants and everyone else in the village felt and for his own health’s sake he felt he should concur. But then, like a miracle Abel had turned up again. That fleeting appearance and dreadful recapture had made Christopher determined never, ever to give up on his son again while breath might remain in his body.
In this spirit, Christopher had his first view of the great Ottoman city. The night was beginning to fade, but it was still too dark to see. As he stood on deck, his face to the breeze, there was nothing to focus on and he was thinking more about Abel than at what lay hidden. Then, slowly, he could see that the fading darkness was revealing a thick mist. It hung on the rigging and settled in his hair and the shoulders of his cloak. As the sun began to rise, the mist became suffused with a pale golden light, the beauty of which made his heart leap painfully in his breast. There was still nothing to be seen. They seemed to be sailing through a celestial cloud rather than the sea.
Soon they were hardly moving at all. The command was given to extinguish the lamps and a hail from aloft caused the captain to curse and call for the steersman to mind his job. After a few moments, a cry came from somewhere off their bow and the captain strode to the side to reply.
Christopher watched as a shadowy boat appeared in the mist and the pilot came aboard. He wore baggy trousers and a cloth around his head. Christopher had expected his skin to perhaps be brown, but his face was flat and his skin yellow.
‘I said there would be many different faces,’ said Ethan, who had just come on deck.
Christopher nodded, but he had no heart for conversation just now. Instead, he listened to the strange sound of the words spoken by the pilot. The captain, who had a little of the Moorish tongue, replied as best he could. A deal was being struck when, all of a sudden, a wailing cry came from somewhere beyond the ship. Christopher started and stared with alarm into the golden mist, but the few grey shapes discernible were impossible to define. The cry became a haunting chant, which was taken up by others until they were surrounded by a sea of ethereal voices.
The pilot took from his waist a small cloth and laid it carefully on the deck. Christopher had heard of this way of worship and turned his gaze politely away from the man, not wanting to appear rude. The pilot, however, seemed oblivious, concentrating totally on his preparations for prayer.
Slowly, as the haunting voices ceased, the mist thinned, turned to wisps and disappeared. The city was revealed in all its watery splendour with tall, slim towers and many curious buildings. The pilot finished his prayers and calmly folded his cloth, ready now to begin his work of bringing the ship to a safe harbour.
‘There is the Sultan�
�s palace. They say he has a thousand concubines there. Maybe it’s ten thousand. Who can tell?’ Ethan was pointing at a great wall, close to the water’s edge, with many bastions. The wall stretched in both directions and enclosed a huge fortress on the headland. Behind the wall were several domes and many tall, thin, delicate towers reaching up into the sky. Trees behind the wall hinted at pleasure gardens, but the wall itself spoke of security. This was a palace in a supremely defensive position. With a jerk of recognition, Christopher felt sure it must be the palace depicted on his map. He stared at the little he could see, as if he could will Abel to appear. His son felt suddenly close and at the same time mournfully distant.
Guided by the pilot, their ship crept forward and rounded the point. Christopher could see that the wall still ran along the edge of the sea until at last it headed inland. According to the map, the palace walls enclosed the entire headland, holding back the city, which clamoured right up against them. Within those walls must surely be where his son lived, even now maybe rising, little knowing that soon his father would come to take him home.
Christopher found he was trembling. If only he had wings to fly straight to where Abel lay! At this instant his heart rose, loving this city, this place where they would be reunited. The golden mist, the haunting song, the minarets – all were known to Abel and were now known to him. How lucky he was that the King had been kind enough to facilitate this journey. Maybe Abel would know of some speciality of the city they could take back to delight the King.
Christopher knew he must be patient. It would take a while for the ship to dock, for him to find the ambassador’s residence and to present his letter of introduction. No doubt more time would pass before he was able to meet the Sultan and ask for his son’s return. He should take this time to acquaint himself with his surroundings. Determinedly, he tore his gaze away from the palace and crossed the deck to look out in the opposite direction. As he did so, he got a surprise. His map had not shown this part, but it seemed that more of the city lay here. Constantinople sprawled on both sides of the water, with yet more minarets as well as a wider tower thrusting up into the sky, and many houses and other buildings too. The channel was much wider than the Thames, far too wide for any bridge. In the infant daylight, numerous small boats were beginning to cross over, carrying people, goods and even horses, as he noticed on one of the nearer vessels. Constantinople was a city divided by the sea, a sea in this calm, early morning sunlight that looked like pale liquid gold.
In spite of Christopher’s determination to remain patient, he couldn’t help being distressed to realise that the Henry was going to moor on the opposite side of the city to the palace.
‘Calm yourself, friend,’ said Ethan. ‘The ambassador lives up the hill on this side. I must report to his office, as must you, once we have found lodgings. Would you care for us to find a place to stay together?’
There was a gentle bump as the ship nudged into the jetty.
‘That is very kind of you, but my letter of introduction to the ambassador requires him to find me a place to stay.’
Ethan looked impressed. ‘You are fortunate, sir. I wish I had the ear of the King!’
Leaving their boxes on board, the two men made their way onshore as soon as they were able. The narrow streets were busy and, although it was still early, the sun was warm. It was very different from London. Much of humanity was here, with a few pale, lumpish European faces mingling with tawny Arabs and flatter faces with almond eyes from the East. The food for sale looked and smelt different from the pies and vegetables Christopher was used to. Ethan wanted to linger and pay attention to the numerous vendors who bayed for business, but Christopher refused to dally.
‘You must eat!’ complained Ethan, pushing some food into Christopher’s hands.
Christopher looked down. Ethan had given him a large, warm piece of puffed-up bread. It must be bread, although he’d never seen the like before. It was very different from the heavy loaves Jane made. This was fragrant and soft. When he bit into it, it collapsed and steam rose from the hollow within. He folded it in half and took another bite. It was very good.
‘Thank you.’
Ethan gave him a cheerful grin. ‘I think we are coming to Pera, where the ambassador’s residence is. It’s hard to remember clearly.’
They did appear to have reached a richer part of the city. The houses were large and the streets less cluttered. Christopher looked about him for someone to ask where the English ambassador lived. Several people were coming towards them and Christopher approached one. The man was dressed in a long robe but looked European.
‘Excuse me …’
The man inclined his head politely.
‘Can you tell me where the English ambassador has his house?’
‘Yes. It is just a little way along this street.’ He had a strong accent that Christopher recognised straight away.
‘Forgive me. Are you Dutch?’
The man smiled. ‘I am. Jacob Borch at your service, sir. I live nearby, as do most of us who serve our ambassadors. I take it you have just arrived in this city?’
Ethan broke in. ‘Indeed, we have! And are eager to learn. I have to find somewhere to live, although this lucky fellow is to be housed by order of our king.’
Jacob looked anew at Christopher. ‘Then you will soon be comfortable. And you, sir,’ he added to Ethan, ‘will not have difficulty in finding lodgings nearby. When you are settled,’ he went on, between their thanks, ‘I would very much like to hear the news from Europe. Our nations are now at peace and there is no reason why we should not be friends.’
They parted at the English ambassador’s house. Christopher’s letter from the King got him swift entry and almost immediate access to John Finch, the ambassador, who seemed at a bit of a loss how to help him.
‘I am, of course, happy to accommodate you at the King’s pleasure,’ he said uneasily. ‘But I fail to see how I can otherwise be of any help. There are thousands of Christian slaves throughout this empire, many of them English, with families wishing to bring them home. Unfortunately, because you have not heard where he is, to find your son is well-nigh impossible.’
‘But I am persuaded he lives in the palace,’ insisted Christopher.
John Finch looked even more uncomfortable. ‘Indeed?’ Christopher waited a few moments while the ambassador picked up a small brass vase from his desk and studied it as if he’d never seen it before. At length, he replaced it and looked at his visitor. ‘I can and do have general conversations with officials about the problem of Christian slaves. However, I do not think that making enquiries about one who may or may not be in the palace would be a sensible idea. It is not for me to ask about the Sultan’s own slaves. At the very least, it would be thought impertinent.’ He looked at Christopher and sighed. ‘At Whitehall, I dare say if you loiter outside for long enough and make enquiries you will learn every servant’s name and where they dwell. Here it is very different.’
‘But I have this map. Surely, sir …’ Christopher struggled to find the most diplomatic words. ‘Surely with this it might be possible to make my way to him … once I found out what part he lives in …’ He handed the map to the ambassador, who glanced at it impatiently, then took a closer look and blanched.
‘Where did you get this?’
Christopher started to explain, but the ambassador interrupted him. ‘No. I think I would rather not know.’ His eyes flitted to it again and he spoke very quietly. ‘Does the King know of this?’
‘Yes.’ Christopher matched his whisper. ‘Indeed, he had a copy made.’
‘Then, if you take my advice, you will burn it and bury the ashes.’ He thrust it back at Christopher. ‘If that map is accurate … or even not, it is a smouldering fuse. If you were found carrying such a thing, you would be arrested. I could not save you. Nor would anyone else. Even in this residence I cannot be certain there are no spies.’
‘But the King …’
‘Our king is a long way
from Constantinople. You are in a foreign country and the Sultan’s word is law. That’ – he hesitated – ‘thing … looks to include details of the most private apartments. Believe me, if the Sultan knew such a map was in your hands, your death would not be a happy one, nor swift. It is not just slaves that are kept captive in that place. I suggest you know nothing of the politics of this place, nor the dynasty that rules it. Better to keep away if you value your life.’
Christopher took a deep breath. ‘Sir, it matters little to me whether I live or die, except that I must live to save my son. This is all I have to show me where he is. Is there nothing you can tell me to give me hope?’
John Finch’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘You know nothing of this place or my difficulties. I do what I can diplomatically every day. I can perhaps mention your son to an official if you leave his name and description with my secretary, along with your offer of ransom, but I have to tell you that you would have more chance if he were in a private home or working on a farm. Forgive me, but you are unlikely to have enough money to interest the Sultan.’
Christopher refused to give in. ‘If you could at least discover if he is there.’
John Finch looked exasperated. ‘You tell me he is.’
The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan Page 14