Shadow of the Corsairs

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Nobility or not, no one here was going to pour the coffee for him so he did it himself. He savored the steam rising from the mug and sipped the scalding liquid. It seemed to flow not into his stomach but into his veins like molten gold.

  After a moment, he reached for the journal and hardly noticed the tilt of the head Elias gave in Hardacre's direction. He paid no attention as the two men left him alone in the room with the records.

  He hesitated, his fingertips brushing over the binding. He was an explorer, that’s what he did. He never shied away from examining new terrain, so why did he hesitate now?

  Jonathan rubbed his hand over the book binding and reached again for his coffee. Perhaps that would ease the rising tension in his gut.

  He had always had an interest in how the world worked. Everything had fascinated him. It was not enough to know that it worked. He wanted to know why it worked.

  When men from Europe came to pay their respects and to ask for assistance to map and record the Kingdom of Ethiopia and the world beyond it, Jonathan begged his father to let him go. He’d been thirteen then and newly acknowledged as a man. His father recognized the futility of trying to cage his curiosity.

  He saw more of the world than his friends, indeed more of the world than many people at court, and, on his return, he would report to the king. In exchange for his familiarity of the kingdom, Jonathan learned languages and mastered instruments – the sextant, the theodolite, and, his favorite, the violin.

  Of the Europeans who came and went, one man really understood Ethiopia and loved the country and the people as Jonathan himself did. Ludwig Gottleib. He arrived with his nephew who was about Jonathan’s age by then – fifteen years old. They became fast friends, and when Heinrich died of the tsetse fly fever, it was as though both families had lost a precious son.

  Heinrich was buried with great pomp and honor. It was a Christian burial and ritual common to both cultures. Jonathan was honored to have been bequeathed Heinrich’s worldly goods, including the beautiful violin which he determined to master in honor of his good friend.

  Seven years later, Jonathan married his bride, Mellesse. Their families had been friends and neighbors for generations, and the union of the two families was cause for great celebration. Jonathan could not have been more pleased with the bride chosen for him. It had been a prayer come true for the both of them.

  It would have been easy for him to run his family estate alongside his elder brother and their extended family. But his need to explore, to understand why, was no less strong when Mellesse gave birth to their older daughter, Debre. Gottleib returned home to Europe with a promise to return.

  But things had changed in the kingdom. The old king had died, and so too had Jonathan’s own father. While Jonathan’s brother ascended to his role as leader of the clan with all honor due, succession in the kingdom itself attracted rivals and strife. Ethiopia’s new Emperor, revered but old, needed a younger man, a stronger man, to rule in his name. But Jonathan was a world away from politics. He used the time to document his own family’s history as well as the history of his people. No one should ever forget that his people could trace their family line back to the family of families, to King Solomon himself, ancestor of the Messiah.

  And Jonathan’s own family was further blessed by two more daughters.

  When Gottleib returned, so too had Jonathan’s wanderlust. Political tensions in the kingdom had worsened. Competing families warred for the regency of Ethiopia. Aristocratic families were under pressure to support one faction or another. He had been pleased that it was a problem for his older brother to deal with, not him.

  Jonathan shook his head and returned to the present, the room in the aft of the swaying ship, rubbing his hand once more over the cover of the ledger. His mental wanderings were just procrastination, he knew it. Did he want to know what was inside? If he left it closed, he could remember his wife in the happy years that they had spent together. The horror of their separation could be just a nightmare. But if he opened the volume and found out for certain, then there would be no hiding from his worst fears.

  The ledger opened before he could second guess himself. He scanned the script from right to left, looking for any detail of the raid and whether Mellesse still lived.

  He recalled the night. It had fueled his terrible dreams for months.

  He squeezed his eyes shut as he found the date in late spring.

  Mighty God, give me strength!

  He and Gottleib had been only three days’ ride from home, encamped in a valley where Gottleib had set his base for collecting botanical specimens. Mellesse had decided she and the girls should come and visit them.

  There had been warnings from various nomadic groups that slave raids had been taking place, but that was hundreds of miles away, so Jonathan had no worries about his safety or that of his family – not when they were such a large party of more than thirty men.

  The month his family spent in the valley was paradise. He hadn’t realized how much his little girls were growing up. The middle child, Belkis, was so much like her mother, steady and sensible, but Hagos reminded him of himself – eyes that lit up every time she discovered something new.

  Jonathan choked down a sob; the little one was barely two years old.

  He had witnessed his beautiful children’s deaths and their lives never even warranted a mention in Kaddouri’s cursed book. He rose from the table and paced until the violent agitation was controlled enough to for him to concentrate on the words on the paper.

  One adult female killed. Punished for severely wounding one of the raiding party. Ten male slaves sent to Suakin in Nubia. Hamid Addisu suggests the European and the Ethiopian with him would be suitable candidates for ransom.

  Jonathan read the words and clapped a hand to his mouth to hold back the vomit that rose up his throat. He pushed back the chair which scraped harshly on the wooden boards and just made it to the wash basin before the contents of his stomach gave themselves up.

  Hamid Addisu? The only man he knew of that name was one of Ras Zewede’s men. Jonathan knew the man, he was a court official. He and Mellesse had dined with him and his family. There had to be some kind of error. Why would Hamid do such a thing?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  January, 1811

  “Morwena, what are you doing, my passerotta? It is late and you’ll ruin your eyesight if you don’t stop.”

  Morwena raised her head and looked back to offer her father a tired smile.

  “I will, Papa, Just let me finish this page.”

  Thomasso looked at her doubtfully. She glanced back at the ledger before her.

  “I promise, Papa. Will you set some milk on the stove? We will have a hot drink before we got to bed.”

  She watched her father consider the suggestion, then nod. She held her breath a moment to be sure her father left the room and let out the most unladylike yawn before, once again, considering the numbers rowed up like good little soldiers. Then she glanced down to the totals to be sure that, in her exhaustion, she had not miscalculated.

  She totaled up the figures once more and filled in another column. They told her the truth. They did not lie to her – unlike some people – and what they told her filled her with a small measure of pride.

  She allowed the ink to dry. Black ink. The ink that announced profit.

  Morwena set her pen down and grimaced at her hands. She had bitten her nails to the quick. It had been a tremendous gamble to give that much money to purchase twenty times the amount of hardware they usually imported. But as soon as she had learned that another Englishman had arrived on their shores to buy land for planting marsala grapes, she knew there was an opportunity worth taking.

  Now, with her plan a success, she wondered why she hadn’t considered the idea before – and she honestly hadn’t until that day two months ago when Cettina made a fool of herself over the blond English pirate.

  Unlike some of the other shop owners, she did not resent the new arrival
s. Rather, she learned from Nico which ships were bringing in the Englishmen, and she arranged for him and his friends to distribute a handbill which announced – in English – that new arrivals were welcome at T. Gambino’s Emporium for everything a gentleman farmer might need.

  It was a bold and audacious plan, but it worked. The first man who came in examined the rakes, hoes, pruning shears, and hammers and ordered a dozen of each – and at a price that none of the local men would have been prepared to pay.

  Another told her that a Captain Kit Hardacre had sent him. She didn’t know the name, but it sounded English enough, so she simply nodded and took his order. If this Hardacre man was the blond pirate, he certainly didn’t say anything when he came to call, and neither did his companions come to mention it.

  If it was them and she was in their shoes, she would have made sure of securing a commission for all the customers referred to her business.

  The sound of her father rattling around the kitchen finally pulled her attention away from the books. Morwena closed them and joined him.

  Two mismatched mugs stood on the table, and she recognized them as the ones her mother habitually used. The ghost of her memory was strong in this place; she recalled her feeding two growing boys who always seemed to have insatiable appetites. There had been many a night Morwena had gone to sleep with the sound of plates and baking trays rattling, and awaking to the smell of freshly-baked bread in the morning.

  She never minded that her small bedroom was next to the kitchen – it was always warm in winter.

  The sound of the saucepan being removed from the stove behind her brought Morwena back to the present. Her father deftly poured the milk into the mugs. She stared into the gathering of small bubbles in the center of each one and, for a moment, she wished as hard as she could that she could see her mother’s face just as it was before she became ill.

  Instead, it was her father’s face she saw just as he poured a measure of grappa into the cup, followed by three or four lumps of sugar. He stirred the concoction vigorously while Morwena dusted hers with a sprinkling of cinnamon. She took a sip and released a satisfied sigh.

  “Every day you remind me so much of your mother,” Thomasso said, his voice low. Morwena recognized his struggle to keep it from breaking. “I haven’t done the right thing by you –”

  “– Papa...”

  She set down her cup.

  “I should have arranged for your marriage,” he said, “so you could have a husband and a family of your own.”

  She reached across and touched her father’s hand. “Someone has to take care of you. Who will keep house? Who will feed the boys when they come home?”

  The last question had been a calculated one on her part. Thomasso never spoke of his eldest son since their bitter argument. Her father’s reaction now would reveal whether the prodigal son would ever be welcomed home.

  She watched his eyes. Her father’s eyelids closed for a moment, taking him far away from her. She swallowed a lump. Was he leaving her again, in that strange distracted way that enveloped him like early morning mist?

  When his eyes opened, they regarded her clearly.

  “You’re a good daughter,” he answered. Thomasso turned his hand and squeezed hers. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how much responsibility you have taken on in the shop recently.”

  Morwena held her breath; she had taken a risk in the way she had drummed up business and the amount of stock she had ordered. It had paid off handsomely, but it was not her money to gamble with – it was her father’s.

  She refused to lower her eyes despite a small pang of conscience.

  “Do you object, Papa?”

  This time, the old man smiled, fully and openly. It was a rare sight that reminded Morwena of the happy times before her mother’s death.

  “Would it do any good if I did?” The teasing note in his voice brought a smile to Morwena’s own face. “You would just do it anyway, passerotta, eh?”

  Her smile broadened a little more. “You’re right, Papa, it wouldn’t do any good.”

  The confession was met with a hearty laugh. Morwena’s eyes fell away from her father’s. Whether he knew it or not, Thomasso had just given her license to continue with running the business her way.

  After a quiet few moments, she watched her father’s head nod and his eyelids slowly close. Sleepy, but not yet asleep. Perhaps she should press her luck once again and raise the issue of his two prodigal sons.

  “Papa, I saw Nico the other day. He’s working hard down at the docks. I thought maybe...”

  Those tired eyes grew alert.

  “I have no sons.”

  Morwena turned her attention to the dregs of her drink and waited until her father rose from the table and left the room.

  Poor Nico. He was a good boy. He only left because of his loyalty to his older brother.

  Morwena rose from the table and swilled out the mugs in the now cold remains of the rinse water. That would do until morning. She checked the bread dough which had been rising in the tins since dinner. She would never match her mother’s skill as a housekeeper and, yet, she would never be truly valued as a son. What a depressing thought.

  She extinguished the lamp in the kitchen. That put the lamp by the desk – her desk – in sharp relief, the canvas-bound volume in red upon it catching the light of the lamp while, in the cluster of shelves behind, cast in shadows, was the strongbox that held all their money.

  Now that her father had returned to himself, he would be checking the ledger. He would see there was more taken than usual for the household budget. He would learn that she was taking money to give to Nico.

  Would it do more harm than good for her father to learn she had been so enterprising? Perhaps she had misread her father’s praise? When he spoke of responsibility, perhaps it was her housekeeping he praised. How long had it been since he had paid attention to the figures in the ledgers?

  She listened for the familiar sounds of her father preparing himself for bed, the squeak of the hinges of his wardrobe, the discordant groan of bedsprings as he settled himself on it, the thud of one boot then another dropping to the floor.

  She lowered the wick on the lamp to give herself just enough light to see by and opened the ledger. Over four weeks, the sales, the takings, and the expenses were the result of her enterprise alone.

  But that didn’t mean her father, now appearing well enough, wouldn’t take a look for himself. If he was feeling himself again, he would take over the running of the business, the same as he always had.

  In truth, Thomasso Gambino had always been somewhat of a hard man. Although he had tried to make an effort to be kinder after the death of his wife, it was clear his softness extended to his daughter and not his sons. But, even so, it would be most unwise to count on his softer temper.

  Morwena stared at the entries she had been working on tonight, which revealed how much she had spent on farming tools and how much she had sold them for, having matched them against the loose, hand-written receipts.

  Perhaps the profit was a secret she should keep to herself alone.

  Before she could change her mind, she flipped open the ink well, picked up a pen, and crossed out the recent entries.

  No, that was no good, her father might ask how such a mistake came to be. He would add up her figures and find no flaw in her mathematics.

  Well, he could not question what he could not see...

  She turned the page, inserted a piece of loose blotting paper, and flipped the page back. She refilled the pen and let big splotches of ink obscure the writing, then wiped the still wet ink across, making the last three entries illegible.

  That was a start, but she still needed to have proper records for her own enterprise.

  She rose quietly and tiptoed into her room. From her small dressing table, she pulled out a journal that her elder brother had given her as a gift for New Year’s when she was fourteen. And she had intended to use it diligently. But as January fell
into February, she had lost interest, mainly because there was nothing of interest to write down. She felt silly chronicling the childish gossip she overheard. It hadn’t seemed the type of thing that ought to be recorded for posterity. It seemed shameful somehow, unworthy of remembrance.

  However, now, ten years later, the journal could serve another purpose.

  This would be the record of her venture, the true reckoning of her business acumen.

  She ruled up the page in her miniature ledger and carefully annotated the income and expenditure over the past week.

  In the shop’s ledger, Morwena spent hours by dim lamplight to rework all the entries for the past week. She would show a slight improvement, but nothing to arouse suspicion should her father cast an eye over it.

  The mantel clock chimed eleven by the time she was done.

  She straightened and rubbed her lower back. Fixing the entries was one thing, but her father would swiftly notice if there was too much money in the cash box.

  She swiftly counted out a pile of coins and stared at them a moment as they sat in her apron. There was the equivalent of thirty English pounds which she had earned, but that still didn’t stop the pang of conscience when she relocked the box.

  She tied a knot in her apron to secure the coins and put the strongbox back in its place.

  It was a small fortune she carried in her apron, and it was hers by right.

  So why did it feel like stealing?

  She shook her head. There was so much good the money could do. Enough to pay Nico’s accommodations if he could not live in his family home. Enough to pay for the shipment of more tools, and she had negotiated a good rate for them – even the ones she carried in the store.

  Morwena felt a warmth high in her chest, a little spark. She grinned. That’s how she could explain the improved profit when the prices had not gone up. The spark sputtered out at a fresh thought.

  The new stock couldn’t be kept in the storeroom out the back, especially if her father was well enough to run the business as he always had. He would ask questions about the quantities and upbraid her for the waste. And if her business grew as she hoped, there would be no room out the back for the stock either.