Shadow of the Corsairs

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  This is madness. You don’t know these men. They will get you killed.

  And yet exhilaration filled him and, with scalding clarity, he knew why.

  For the first time in more than a year he was unafraid.

  The records room was locked. Hardacre made short work of it with his booted foot. The man might be slightly built, but he was strong.

  The windowless room smelled of ink and paper. Hardacre gravitated toward the newest of the records, ignoring the urgency driven by the bombardment. Jonathan looked at the bound records and for anything that indicated dates.

  He had not seen Mellesse since the day of the raid; if she lived, the record of her sale should be here.

  There, in the center of the bottom row, he found the volume marked 1224 for the Islamic year just past.

  Did he want to open it? Jonathan hesitated over the cover.

  He nearly dropped it at the sound of running feet. He turned swiftly and saw Hardacre rising with a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. At his feet was a satchel stuffed full of papers that had been on the desk.

  Jonathan remembered his own pistol lying uselessly on the table in front of him.

  Then Elias appeared in the doorway, breathless from running. Without missing a stride, the man tossed something toward him, but he addressed Hardacre. “Kaddouri’s men are retreating to the compound here, we have to move.”

  Then he looked to Jonathan. “I took a guess at the size.”

  Jonathan shook his head, clearing it. He’d been staring at the boots as though he’d never seen footwear before. He lowered himself to the floor and loosened the laces.

  “Let’s see if there is anything worth having in that chest.” Hardacre pointed to where he had pulled back part of a bookcase that revealed a niche containing a small, iron-banded chest.

  “We don’t have time,” said Elias.

  “Well we won’t if we stand around and argue about it. C’mon, help me open it, unless you want to lug it back to the ship.”

  Jonathan glanced up in time to see Elias give his captain a sour look. But nevertheless, the man approached, pulling out the pliers he’d used to the remove the shackles and another devise that looked like a large pin.

  Jonathan stretched out his leg and wiggled his toes. The boots were slightly too large, but they’d do for now. Hardacre moved toward the door and glanced down the passage before whistling some kind of lively tune while Elias worked on opening the chest.

  With both men occupied, Jonathan glanced at the volume he had pulled from the shelf. He lunged forward and swiftly tucked it into Hardacre’s satchel. But as he stood once more, he saw Hardacre glance toward him; the man must have the hearing of a cat. Jonathan waited for a challenge, but it never came.

  Instead, Hardacre reacted to the sound of sharp surprise from his shipmate. “Feel this,” Elias said. “There’s got to be fifteen pounds of gold here, easily.”

  “That’s a good enough haul for now.”

  BOOM!

  The building shuddered. When Jonathan’s hearing cleared, he could hear shouts of men from outside. Whether they were friend or foe, he could not tell.

  “Best we not hang about, eh, men?” Hardacre sounded almost giddy with delight. His face carried the same emotion – excited, enthused. This time, it was he and Elias who exchanged a glance. And not for the first time, Jonathan wondered whether he had made a mistake throwing in his lot with these men.

  Hardacre looked at his satchel and then to Jonathan before picking it up.

  “Here, take good care of it,” Hardacre said, tossing it toward him.

  Jonathan caught it with both hands and slipped the straps over his shoulders, then retrieved the pistol. His bare back itched in reaction to the rough texture of the canvas against his skin. To his surprise, Hardacre didn’t take the gold himself, but instead let Elias carry it.

  “Let’s go!”

  Hardacre cocked one of the pistols and grasped a knife in his other hand. He edged to the door and peered around. When he looked back, the gleeful mirth had gone from his face. He was as serious as the situation warranted.

  With an incline of his head, the white-haired man indicated they should follow.

  Outside, most of Jonathan’s fellow slaves had fled, but others had remained, setting fire to some of the cells. He slowed at the entrance to the compound, thinking of Gottleib. It didn’t seem right to leave him there, not again, not for a second time.

  He stopped at the German’s body and looked down. The dead man’s open eyes were now full of grit. Jonathan felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Come on,” said Elias, seeming to understand his connection with the dead man, “there’s nothing more you can do.”

  He knew that. He knew that. But it didn’t make it any easier.

  Jonathan thought it simpler to nod and run again and keep his eyes on the crazy, young, white man running in front of them who seemed intent on charting a course right through the center of hell.

  It was a half-mile from the slave yard through the souk to the docks, and Hardacre seemed utterly unconcerned by falling lead, splintering masonry, armed guards, or slaves half-mad with fear who might have armed themselves. He whooped and hollered some kind of war cry.

  Personally, Jonathan would have felt better if they had taken their time and made their way quietly. At this rate, every single lunatic this side of Timbuktu would spot them. Yet the man sprinted his way over and through obstacles like a gazelle, and behind him was his man, Elias, bearing the weight of a sizable amount of gold and yet he did not complain, nor did he slow his stride.

  A belt fastened while running will come undone while running.

  Much the same could be said for shoes. At least the rubbing on his heels and ankles distracted him from the friction of the canvas pack on his bare shoulders and back.

  Jonathan flinched, his chest squeezed by the rush of air from a cannon shot that fell uncomfortably close behind them, his skin peppered by soil from the blast.

  “Come on!” Hardacre yelled. “They’re shelling the compound. The closer we get to the docks, the safer we’ll be!”

  The smoke from spot fires swirled thick, low to the ground as the night air grew colder, making it harder to breathe.

  Jonathan felt every wound on his body. He was foolish to throw his lot in with these men. He could leave now and make his way to Cairo where his cousin owned a coffee exporting company. Osman would lend him the money to return home. He could drop the satchel and run out into the night and keep on running.

  Then the face of his beloved Mellesse appeared in his mind’s eye and the ledger he had added to the pack seemed heavier and heavier with each step. Could he live without knowing her fate? The answer to the question he thought and prayed over for nearly a year was almost within reach.

  He gritted his teeth and continued on behind Hardacre and Elias. The air smelled of smoke and salty water.

  “Cap’n! We’d nearly given ye up!”

  “Get us away from here, Mr. Grace!” answered Hardacre. “We have treasure to share and a guest to bring on board.”

  “Right ye are.”

  Jonathan could now see this Mr. Grace, a man well into his fourth decade, another European, but this one wore a greying beard. Another man was using an oar to keep a small boat from bumping against the stone seawall.

  Hardacre jumped aboard the small vessel which rocked, but the young man held on to the jetty, steadying it. Elias handed down his weighted pack and, with a lot more caution than his captain, clambered down into the boat. Jonathan removed the satchel and put it in Elias’ outstretched hands.

  But he hesitated. Four white faces looked up at him.

  “You’re welcome to join us, friend,” said Elias.

  “And you are equally free to go,” Hardacre added.

  Jonathan’s eyes skimmed the satchel holding the ledger and it didn’t go unnoticed by Hardacre.

  “But I think you’ll find there are many more good reasons to stay
.”

  Jonathan looked sharply at him. The young man was impertinent and far too observant. That made him dangerous.

  Once again, a decision had been made for him. Even though he stepped into the small craft of his own free will, the choice didn’t seem like much of one. The four men each grasped an oar. Jonathan pushed the boat away from the dock.

  The pounding fusillade of cannons subsided to occasional rolling thunder on the water. Here, the little row boat picked its way among the burning and listing ships; masts and spars broken and jutting out at odd angles.

  The roar of fire engulfing galiot after galiot was louder. Despite their relative proximity and orange glow radiating warmth, Jonathan shivered in the cold air rising up over the sea. He shifted his blistered feet. Through the boot, he felt the satchels holding Kaddouri’s records and the small cache of gold in its sack. He ached. Everything ached.

  He idly pondered what was worth trading his soul for – a filling meal or one decent night’s sleep, perhaps?

  “Wind’s good, Captain, it’ll take us away from here in no time.”

  “See that we are away, Mr. Grace. The Americans won’t be too happy if they find out what we’ve been up to.”

  Jonathan listened to the conversation which had switched to English. Gottleib had taught him a smattering of it, as well as German. He just hadn’t recognized it in a native accent and amidst the noise and mayhem earlier.

  Standing at anchor before them now was a European ship, much smaller than the American and Dutch warships continuing their bombardment. He wasn’t familiar enough with the shape to give it a name, but it didn’t look like a warship. A trading vessel, perhaps.

  “Captain ahoy! Five to board!” Hardacre yelled up.

  “Five?”

  “You heard right, cloth ears!”

  A moment later, a cargo net was dropped over the side, along with two ropes. Hardacre immediately started to climb the net up the side of the hull. Elias did likewise. Jonathan looked at the two other men on the boat, but they were busy securing the ropes to eyebolts on the fore and aft.

  Jonathan elected to join Hardacre and Elias in the climb rather than be hauled aloft like so much cargo. No, he’d make his own way up, thank you very much.

  By the time he reached the deck, he found himself surrounded by a dozen men, all European. With his back against the rail, he felt cornered like a leopard. Jonathan felt his lip curl in the beginning of a growl before he realized they were paying him no heed but were busy setting sails.

  All except one, who eyed him suspiciously.

  “Ahoy!” Hardacre yelled – and in the lamplight on deck, he looked little older than a boy. He held the sack of gold aloft. “Get us away from here in good time and there’s gold to share!”

  “Who’s your friend, Captain?” asked the suspicious man. The question may have been delivered mildly, but there was no friendliness in it.

  Hardacre gave the man a look to steady him and addressed the crew about them. “Men!” He drew a deep breath as if about to introduce a musician or a stage performer. “This is...”

  His voice trailed off. Kit turned to him; the youthful face carried a frown as he appeared to remember. Jonathan had never given his name, nor had he been asked.

  Jonathan glanced at Elias, who appeared to be the most sane and stable of the lot. Even he was shaking his head in mild exasperation at his captain.

  Then Hardacre’s face brightened to the point of mischief. “Well, perhaps you should introduce yourself, then,” he said in Arabic.

  Jonathan looked about the deck in growing satisfaction at the men who now all stopped to watch him. Kit Hardacre was not the only man who could hold court.

  “My name,” he said loudly in English, letting his voice carry, “is Jonathan, son of the Ras, Tewodros Afua.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  November 1810

  “Morwena, I cannot find my glasses, can you ask your mother? She'll know where they are.”

  Morwena Gambino set down her pen and winced. Today was going to be one of her father's bad days.

  She pulled away from the small, fruitwood desk that had been tucked under the window in the alcove by the stairs and looked at the half-completed ledger with regret.

  She cocked an ear, listening to her father rummaging in his bedroom, muttering what seemed to be a half-intelligible conversation with her long-deceased mother. She rubbed her lower back to ease the ache in it and walked through the kitchen into the sitting room where she knew her father's glasses sat on the mantel.

  And, yes, they were there in the leather spectacles case where he always put them. In fact, Morwena had never known a time her father hadn’t kept them there. She retrieved the spectacles and went to the bedroom.

  “Papa?” She placed a gentle hand on her father's stooped shoulder as not to startle him. “I found your glasses.”

  He turned, and his weathered face brightened. “I knew your mother would know where they were!”

  She felt her smile stiffen, but her father didn't notice. He slipped the wire arms over his ears. Greying hair stuck out at all angles.

  “Papa,” she hated the hesitation in her voice, but she knew this conversation could not be put off any longer.

  It took a moment for Thomasso Gambino to focus his attention back to her. He smiled indulgently and patted her hand.

  “Dearest Anna.”

  Thomasso stood and walked out of the bedroom. Morwena swallowed and lowered her eyes. She could not get used to her father calling her by her mother’s name. It wasn’t until she heard the sound of his foot hit the first tread of the stairs that she followed him.

  Morwena followed her father to the landing and watched him amble down the worn wooden steps to the hallway behind the shop. By the time she reached him, her father had opened the closet by the front door. He retrieved his hat.

  “I have to talk to you about the debtors ledger.”

  “I'll talk to Pietro when I get back.”

  “Papa, Pietro is not here!”

  “Morwena, don’t fuss! He'll take care of that when he gets home.”

  The door out into the alley opened and closed behind him. She let out a small scream of frustration.

  Maman had been dead for eight years now; Pietro had left six years ago, partly because the business could not afford him and partly because father and son butted horns like bulls, and bellowed at one another like bulls too. And now, because of her father’s unpredictable moods, her younger brother, Nico, was gone. Now, he spent most of his time on the docks, working as a stevedore.

  Papa knew that! Just last week he grumbled about his two ungrateful sons.

  Morwena slapped the newel post in frustration.

  Porca Miseria! Pig’s misery!

  Why? Why was it always left to her to pull things together? The mantel clock upstairs sounded seven o’clock. Using her pent up energy, Morwena ran back upstairs and retrieved a small strongbox from the locked drawer in the fruitwood desk, along with the half-complete accounting ledgers. She returned downstairs.

  She parted the curtain that separated the family living quarters from the ironmonger's shop and set about the familiar routine she had known since she had been old enough to walk.

  The strongbox went in the drawer behind the counter, the stock ledger alongside it. She took a long, dun-colored apron and covered her faded blue floral day dress. Then the doors were to be unbolted and the floors swept and shelves dusted.

  And every evening the same thing occurred in reverse order.

  She was sure that steady, unchanging routine was the reason no one had noticed her father's poor memory. She sat herself on a stool by the counter and repinned her long, black hair into a large topknot and sighed.

  She may as well finish the accounts before the first customers came in. Who knew when her father might return?

  The longer Morwena sat at the accounts, the more she felt like weeping. The grocer’s bill was to be paid at the end of the month, and there
was not enough money to pay for their last shipment of iron goods and buy food – not unless Nico had money enough to support them all this month.

  She dismissed the idea, Nico was not much better off than they were. They all lived hand to mouth. The only thing in Nico’s favor was he had no debts – she hoped.

  But speaking of debts, numerous debtors owed them a total of twenty-five ducats, enough to clear their debts easily. That’s what she had to speak to her father about. He would have to knock on their doors and ask for their money.

  No, demand their money!

  Why should they beg, cap-in-hand for what was rightfully owed them? That’s not right, not fair!

  She pulled her hand away before a drop of ink blotted the fine writing on the accounts.

  Perhaps she should speak to Manscuso, the builder, herself.

  The tinkling of the bell about the door broke her from her thoughts.

  “Morwena, stidda! What are you doing sitting behind that big, old desk!”

  She smiled briefly at Cettina. “I have to work!”

  “Where is your papa? Surely you can be let out sometime. We’re all going to take a ride up into the mountains for the day. You have to join us, Carmelo will be there.”

  Morwena smiled and shook her head. She liked Carmelo well enough, but ever since Cettina’s family had formally announced her betrothal to Marcu at Christmas, Cettina had decided that she and her childhood friend should have a double wedding and used every possible opportunity to press her case.

  But since her mother’s death, Morwena’s role in life had been recast – from marriageable daughter to housekeeper, filling the role of her late mother to take care of her papa and brothers like the dutiful daughter she was.

  Cettina, with her voluptuous figure and curly, light brown hair, was not a young woman to be gainsaid. She stood with her hands on her hips waiting for an answer.

  “Well?”

  “I can’t.”

  Her friend’s brows furrowed.

  “Really, I can’t. Papa is... out on errands. There is no one to mind the shop until he returns. I wish I could, I really do, but...”