Shadow of the Corsairs

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Shadow of the Corsairs Page 21

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter


  Morwena stopped with Nico alongside her.

  “If he doesn’t come with us, Pietro, then none of us go.”

  She felt the full weight of her brother’s attention on her.

  “It’s very cold outside, Morwena. While we’re arguing about this, a poor old man could be freezing to death...”

  “And you will get nothing,” she said. “How desperately do you want your money?”

  Pietro shifted on his feet almost imperceptibly but it was enough to reveal he was not as cocksure of himself as he pretended.

  “Let’s go then. The old Mineo place it is,” said Pietro, turning toward the door. “And well chosen, I must say. I might keep you both on to run the business while I build a private palazzo.”

  At Jonathan’s nod, Nico followed behind his brother. Morwena followed, too. Jonathan took her hand briefly and gave it a squeeze.

  Around the corner, a horse and cart waited. The driver was hunched over against the cold.

  “Tito!” Pietro yelled. The man raised his head, but with little urgency. “Shove over! The African can do the work.”

  Morwena clenched her fists to the side, letting the nails dig into her palms. She should scratch his eyes out, stab him in the heart. She willed Jonathan to throw a punch, kill him with his bare hands. Yet he was calm. He showed no spark of temper, yet every step he took seemed to exude power and authority.

  Jonathan climbed up beside the driver in the box seat.

  “Tito is armed. He will shoot you if I tell him.” Pietro produced a pistol of his own. “And I will shoot Morwena for good measure in case either of you decide to play at being knights.”

  Morwena climbed into the back of the cart, aided by Nico. She sat with her brothers on either side. Jonathan leaned back and looked at them. In the darkness she could not tell his expression but she could see his eyes. For a moment, they rested on her and that gave her comfort.

  “Drive on,” Pietro sneered, “and don’t get us lost – for Thomasso’s sake.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The steady gait of the horse as it clopped along the cobble streets, and the creak of the wagon as it trundled behind attracted no attention as it passed apartments where families went about their daily lives, or the taverns where roars of laughter momentarily drowned out the sound of fiddle and accordion music.

  In the cart, no one spoke.

  Once they left the city and started their climb up into the hills, Jonathan relaxed his hands on the reins. The big, black, draft horse seemed to know where it was going and seemed happy enough to continue along the main road. If not for the consistent press of the firearm at his ribs, Jonathan might have thought the man beside him asleep.

  He hadn’t heard from Hardacre for more than a day – and he didn’t know whether that was a good or bad thing. There had been a note from Osman, wishing him well in the venture and safe keeping, but that was all.

  Jonathan had recognized Hardacre’s pattern now that he’d seen it twice over. When there was anything that required careful planning and contained inherent risk, the man would withdraw into himself. He would go so deep within it looked like the soul no longer inhabited his body. One wondered if he even still breathed.

  Eventually, Hardacre would emerge from his trance-like state, filled with a manic energy. He spoke at a hundred miles an hour in a mix of languages, but mostly English, which was not one of Jonathan’s strongest tongues. He struggled to piece together the whole of the plan while Elias kept throwing questions at their captain, forcing him to articulate the details, but frustrating him at the same time.

  Jonathan wanted to understand all of it but, with only two days to plan, time was of the essence, and it was enough to simply know of his role.

  “Morwena will be safest if she is with you, so don’t let Pietro separate you and Nico from her,” said Hardacre. “Remind them that the safety of their father is dependent on them keeping their tempers intact. Pietro will take you directly to Thomasso, and will use that to try and bully Morwena and Nico into giving him what he wants. Do what you can to keep the five of you together. It will make it easier for us to deal with the others and get to you.”

  Kit had stared him down. “And Jonathan, only you are to build the antagonism. It is important that Pietro sees only you as a threat. Make it personal.”

  The horse slowed. Jonathan snapped the reins in response. The horse picked up its pace again and the cart continued its climb into the hills. Jonathan recalled his response to Hardacre. “I don’t understand. Why? Why me?”

  “I think Pietro is trying to buy his way into the clan. This is the price of his initiation. He has to prove himself to the leadership. I suspect they will only back him so far. He will have to show he is capable of dealing with an adversary on his own. If he marks you as his enemy, the others are likely to stand back and watch whether he is capable.”

  “Capable of what?”

  “Killing you.” Hardacre slowly grinned. “Lucky for you, you’ve been trained by the best.”

  Jonathan had rolled his eyes. Elias had merely smirked.

  The man beside him tugged the reins with one hand, drawing the horse to their left. With one direct look, the press of the pistol eased.

  “Give me the reins and put your hands on your lap,” Tito grunted. Jonathan complied.

  The cart moved its way down a narrow track, bordered on each side by overgrown bushes. Jonathan looked into the back of the cart. Nico sat slumped with his head down; Morwena kept her head up and eyes forward – as proud as a queen. His heart swelled.

  Pietro shifted in his seat and caught his look.

  “Eyes back in front, African.”

  Jonathan counted down a good five seconds before he did so – enough to undermine Pietro’s authority, but not endanger Morwena and Nico.

  The path opened out into a clearing. A cloud passed, unveiling a single-story villa, the grounds gently sloped. There was an outbuilding of some kind. Jonathan turned his attention back up to the house where points of yellow lamplight suggested habitation.

  Tito brought the cart to a stop by a door. Two men emerged from the house.

  Pietro stood in the back of the cart

  “Are you ready to see Papa?”

  ***

  Morwena rose on unsteady feet. She could not hide the feeling of disgust that filled her as she looked at her elder brother. But, mindful of Jonathan’s strict instructions, she held her tongue for perhaps the first time in her life.

  She also ignored the over-familiarity of Pietro’s man who slid his hand up her waist. He would remain beneath her notice.

  Nico stayed at her shoulder, but it was from Jonathan that Morwena took her cue.

  They were led into a large room. The end wall was open, dilapidated French windows off their hinges giving a panoramic view down to the grounds. In the center of the room sat Thomasso with his back to them. He was tied to a chair and dressed only in shirt sleeves against the cold air that swirled about the room.

  “Vinislau, Benito, go check around the grounds, make sure no one followed us, then bring Macaluso to witness this.”

  The two men did as they were bid, leaving via the open wall.

  “Papa?” Morwena called out. He did not raise his head. She broke from the group and rushed forward to touch his shoulder.

  The old man started as though coming awake. He raised his head slowly, painfully it seemed. When his eyes met hers, they were wide-eyed and uncomprehending.

  She stood, skewering Pietro with a look.

  “What have you done to him?”

  Thomasso jumped. From behind his gag, he vocalized his fear. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jonathan and Nico move toward them.

  Nico started to untie his father’s hands. Morwena dropped to her knees to tackle the bonds on his ankles, her shaking hands making the task difficult.

  “It was a reckoning a long time coming, Wena,” Pietro sneered.

  “He is your father!”

  “
He was my father! He disavowed me, he said he had no son! He said I was worthless and would amount to nothing!”

  Pietro came up behind her and softened his voice from the yell it had been.

  “You were always his piccola principessa, eh? And for me?” Pietro turned to his father, his visage puce.

  “You gave me nothing!” he screamed in the old man’s face. “You kicked me out of the house and told me to be a man and make my own way in the world. Well, now I am a man! I should make you beg for your life, Stronzo.”

  Thomasso cried in distress through the rag covering his mouth. Pietro swung a punch at him but before it could connect, Jonathan shoved him hard. Pietro staggered backwards, but remained on his feet.

  “Wen!” Nico hissed. “Swap places with me. I’m almost done, I’ll see to his legs.”

  She nodded in relief, got to her feet and finished untying the knots, aware that her father’s hands were cold and blue. But she kept her eyes on Jonathan as he approached Pietro who had back away. He was about eight feet from him when Pietro pulled out a pistol and cocked the hammer.

  “No further, blackamoor.”

  Jonathan paused and scowled. “You only have one shot. Better make it a good one, because if you don’t kill me dead, I will kill you no matter whose brother you are.”

  Morwena watched aghast as the two men faced off a moment. Jonathan took one step forward. Suddenly the pistol wasn’t pointed at the man she loved. It was pointing at her.

  “Get back!” Pietro screamed. “I will shoot!”

  Jonathan backed away. Pietro advanced.

  “Get up, Nico. Go stand by your sister, mingherlino. You, too, African. Vinislau! Benito! Get in here! Bring Macaluso – I want him to see this.”

  He lowered the muzzle toward Thomasso’s torso.

  “All I wanted was your respect, but all you ever did was belittle me. Nothing I did was ever good enough!” Pietro raged. “I want my inheritance, either the business or its value. Then I will no longer have any need of you. I have a new family now.”

  Pietro was getting more agitated. “Vinislau! Benito! Where the bloody hell are you?”

  Morwena heard movement outside the house. She clenched her hands into fists once more. While it was just Pietro, she was confident that Jonathan and Nico alone could subdue him, but once his men returned, they would be finished.

  ***

  The sound of booted feet came closer. Jonathan hoped and prayed those feet belonged to friendly faces.

  “I’m afraid your friends are otherwise engaged.” It was Hardacre who stepped around the corner and into the lamplight.

  Pietro swung the pistol around to address the new threat and his mouth gaped at the sight of the blond Englishman who had frustrated him before in the gardens at Palermo.

  Jonathan turned to Morwena. “Look after your father.” He left her side and put himself between the Gambinos and Pietro.

  “It’s over, put down your gun,” said Jonathan.

  “I told you to shut up! I will shoot!” Pietro’s voice was high, bordering on hysterical.

  “It will be the last thing you’ll do,” said Hardacre. “Look behind you. He never misses.”

  Pietro spun around. On the other side of the room, Elias stood with a rifle shouldered, taking aim.

  “No!” cried Pietro, turning and pointing his pistol once again in Morwena’s direction. “There are a dozen men waiting for me. You will not get out of here alive, jackals.”

  Hardacre scratched his head, as though apologetic. “Well, there’s something else you should know... Macaluso doesn’t have very nice things to say about you at the moment. My men are keeping him entertained.”

  Behind him, Thomasso groaned weakly.

  “You’re killing him,” Morwena screamed. “You bastard! You’re killing your own father.”

  Jonathan kept his eyes on Pietro to the exclusion of everyone else in the room. He noticed the first tremor and at first wondered whether it was from the strain of holding the flintlock out at arm’s length, but the man’s other hand shook also as he ran his fingers through his hair where beads of sweat had gathered despite the cold.

  Jonathan took one step forward unchallenged, then another. He could launch himself forward and wrestle the pistol away.

  Pietro wheeled. “Stop!”

  Jonathan found the weapon aimed at his gut but he took another step anyway.

  “Don’t come any closer.” Pietro’s command sounded more like a plea. “I will kill you. I swear...”

  Jonathan halted, shaking his head sadly. “No one is going to die today, Pietro.”

  The young man met Jonathan’s eyes properly for the first time. There was sudden resignation in them.

  “Yes, they are.”

  He lifted the gun, pressed the barrel under his chin, and pulled the trigger

  Morwena screamed.

  Jonathan launched himself forward as the powder flashed in the pan. A split second later, the main charge ignited. The sharp report of the shot filled his ears, making them ring, and – uselessly – he caught Pietro’s body before it crumpled to the ground.

  Jonathan slowly dropped to his knees, carrying Pietro with him. His hearing came back along with a clanging headache – in time to hear the pistol thump to the floor from dead fingers. He could not bring himself to look at the young man’s destroyed face and kept his eyes closed, feeling warm wetness spread across his chest.

  Running footsteps approached. “Captain! We heard the shot!”

  “We’re fine,” said Hardacre. “Nothing to see here.”

  Then Elias spoke up. “Take the others to the guards with Captain Kit Hardacre’s compliments. We’ll see you back at the ship.”

  Jonathan felt fabric being draped over his arms and he opened his eyes to the blackness of Hardacre’s own coat.

  “Can you lift him?” the captain asked.

  Jonathan nodded and got to his feet, gathering Pietro’s body within the coat. He lifted him and followed Hardacre out to the cart. Elias was there to help him load the body in, muttering a prayer under his breath as he did so.

  Hardacre slapped Jonathan on the back. “Elias and I will take care of this; you go with Morwena and talk to their priest. He’ll know what to do from here.”

  He looked up. There was another cart and Morwena stood beside it, her face pale in the moonlight. Nico and another sailor helped lift the weak Thomasso into the back.

  “Go,” Hardacre prompted. “Your woman needs you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  January 1812

  “Any sight of other ships?” yelled Hardacre up to the man on watch

  “None that I can see, Captain.”

  Jonathan strode up to the helm to put the violin back in its case and retrieved the telescope. His mind rattled through the silhouettes of ships and their origins he had learned.

  He heard rapidly approaching footsteps. Hardacre and Elias, he presumed.

  “She’s a Dutch ship,” Jonathan announced. “She seems to be listing. There’s smoke from the deck, but not a lot of it.”

  “Keep your eyes peeled, we’re going in for a closer look.”

  “Aye, Captain.

  Jonathan heard Elias give instructions to bring the Terpsichore closer but Hardacre remained at his side.

  “Have you ever been on board one of these frigates?”

  Jonathan shook his head and handed Hardacre the telescope.

  “Beautiful ships, French designed, as sweet as you could ever wish one to be – not only in the Mediterranean but also out in the open ocean. They’re lightweight, fast, and a full line of guns around her deck...”

  “You sound like you’re in love, Captain.”

  Hardacre chortled. “There’s a reason why ships are referred to as she where I come from. They are beautiful, temperamental, majestic, and untameable. I’ve yet to meet a woman who could make my heart race as rapidly as a ship under sail.”

  “Then, Captain, you really don’t know what you
’re missing.”

  Hardacre laughed and thumped him on the shoulder.

  “One of these days I’m sure I’ll stand corrected, Mr. Afua.”

  Hardacre yelled across the deck. “One sweep around her, men, we’ll make sure she’s not keeping unpleasant company. Then we’ll attempt a hail.”

  As they approached, the damage to the distressed ship became more obvious. The masts stood but several spars and spreaders were missing, the rigging on which they tensioned hung limply. Sails, which should have been neatly furled, hung uselessly.

  Damage to the portside hull seemed superficial. A single shot blast had exposed the timber beneath which gleamed yellow to the black-painted hull.

  Hardacre brought a speaking trumpet up to his lips “Ahoy, Dolphijn! This is the Terpsichore. We wish to render assistance.”

  There was no returning hail and no activity on deck to suggest they had been heard.

  “I suppose they might have abandoned ship successfully, but surely we’d have seen their small boats,” said Jonathan. Hardacre nodded but didn’t answer. He brought the trumpet up for another hail as they went around.

  The Terpsichore crossed the bow of the stricken vessel. There might have been some movement on deck, but it was difficult to determine.

  Starboard told a different story to the barely scarred portside. Water showered from the one of the gun ports as men, unseen within the bowels of the ship, pumped desperately to slow the ingress of water. The hull was pockmarked with shot. Many of the holes were high on the hips, well above the waterline and of little concern.

  It was those closer to the waterline and below that were cause for apprehension.

  “Well, at least there’s someone on board trying to keep her afloat,” Hardacre muttered.

  Elias rejoined them. “We can help them patch the worst of the damage and give them assistance with pumping. If the worse comes to worst, we can evacuate the full crew.”

  “I’m not sure there’s a full crew left to rescue.”

  “What do you think happened to them?” asked Jonathan.

  “Barbary slavers most likely.”

 

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