Falconer's Quest

by T. Davis Bunn

  Falconer knew the routine with heart-wrenching familiarity. These were newly arrived charges. The market would be up ahead, probably the place Amelia Henning had described. Slave markets were often by the harbor, as most buyers and sellers would arrive in small lateen-sailed ships disguised as coastal fishing vessels. But these poor wretches had made the overland journey. They were corralled here no doubt because this was close to the slaver’s personal compound. They were to be fed and bathed and perhaps oiled before they were moved on to the market. The merchants gathered here sought to pierce the road’s dust and the slaves’ exhaustion to find an early deal.

  But this was not why Wadi had brought Falconer over.

  Two of the owner’s personal servants moved about the cluster of perhaps eighty captives. They permitted the slaves to drink only once they had been washed. Dippers of water were poured over their heads and then they were rubbed down with rough burlap. But three men Falconer observed refused such treatment. They were lashed by their neck to a central pole, a standard yet brutal punishment for slaves. The servants approached them nervously. When they came within range, the nearest man stretched as far as the neck brace permitted and kicked the bucket from the servant’s hand. The two servants squawked and flapped their hands, clearly telling the three men they would receive nothing to drink. The man tried to kick them again. The bargain hunters laughed at the sport.

  Falconer turned to Wadi and asked, “Will you speak for me?”

  The Arab’s voice sounded rusty with disuse. “If I must.”

  “You could fetch Nebo.”

  Wadi shook his head. “Let us do this thing.”

  Falconer nodded his thanks. “Approach the trader.”

  Wadi approached the man in the multicolored robe and plucked at his sleeve. The slaver bowed himself away from the dandy, then added his own invective to the trio lashed to the central pole as he walked by them. Falconer’s fierce glare bothered him not one bit. Slavers were not known for their great store of human kindness. Clearly the man saw in Falconer’s burning rage just another member of his own clan. He salaamed a greeting and spoke to Falconer in French.

  Falconer’s voice was deepened to a growl by his rage. “I am American.”

  The trader switched effortlessly to the other language. “Forgive me, effendi. We see so few of you these days.”

  Falconer recognized the subtle threat. American slavers had never worked along the North African coast. And recently the American Congress had outlawed the importation of more slaves, as an appeasement to the nation’s growing opposition to the entire slave issue. Falconer made no attempt to mask his fury as he replied, “I work for others these days. My oaths of duty are no longer to my homeland.”

  “Of course, effendi. I completely understand. Your curious American codes have made outlaws of many.”

  Falconer took a deep breath. “I am interested in the three you have bound to the pillar.”

  “They are a troublesome lot,” the trader warned. “You have seen that for yourself.”

  Falconer released a trace of the internal cauldron. “I have broken men before.”

  The trader bowed low. “You are welcome to inspect my wares.”

  As Falconer stepped over the low wall, he snapped at Wadi as any slaver would his personal servant, “Bring water.”

  Wadi’s bow went far to easing the trader’s natural suspicions. “Effendi.”

  In an attempt to buy space and secrecy, Falconer said to the trader, “Make sure my man is given a bucket and show him the nearest well.”

  Falconer stepped over the men and women and children separating him from the trio lashed to the central post. They were all so coated by dust their skin color was impossible to tell. But the men had full beards, which was extremely rare among Arabs and almost never seen on Africans. Closer still, Falconer saw the two men facing his direction both had light-colored eyes.

  They drew their legs in tight, readying for another strike. Falconer took this as a very good sign. They were emaciated and wore nothing but rags. Their feet were bare, their ankles festering from the leg chains. Yet they still had fight in them.

  Falconer crouched down, a half pace out of reach. He took out his dagger and rammed it into the earth between them. It was a common warning between slaver and newly acquired charge who did not speak any known tongue. He felt the trader’s gaze upon him from across the corral. Which was enough to keep his voice battle rough. “Do you speak English?”

  The two men who faced him licked their lips and said nothing. But the third man, lashed so that he faced away from Falconer, tried in vain to swivel about.

  That was all the response Falconer could want. “Listen to me carefully.” He now dropped his voice and spoke quickly. “I am a former slaver, brought to my knees and to new ways by my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I ask that you trust me. We have a few seconds only. Who are you?”

  One of the men tried to speak but could not. His eyes turned to watch as Wadi approached with a bucket. Falconer lifted the knife from the sand, as though readying for opposition. This time, however, the man allowed the ladle to be lifted to his mouth. He sucked greedily, then rasped, “Sailors.”

  “One more question only. If I free you, will you give me your allegiance?”

  The man sucked more water, then managed, “You give your word you’re not a slaver?”

  The man’s accent suggested a hint of French, which could mean Canadian. Which meant a whaler. “By my eternal soul, I give you my word,” Falconer assured him.

  “We’re your men.”

  Falconer rose and slipped the dagger back into his belt. “Tell my man all you can.”

  He walked back over to the waiting trader. Each footstep was a burden, a battle. He dared not glance at those he passed. Their misery and his own helplessness left him clamped so tight in grief and rage he could scarcely form the words. He stopped before the trader. “They are a risk. But I am thinking they might bring a profit for the one who can force them to submit.”

  The trader bowed lower still, so that when he straightened, his greed and his relief over getting rid of these impossible charges was well hidden. “Naturally such as these would draw great interest in the harbor market.”

  Falconer gripped his dagger’s haft with one hand, the pistol with the other. Anything to control his fury. “Name your price.”

  Chapter 28

  Falconer left Wadi with the three men, his scowl so grim it parted the teeming market crowd and silenced the tavern tent. The innkeeper bowed Falconer back into his seat without leaving his own position by the rear kitchen fire. Even Falconer’s men were made anxious by his obvious anger—all save Nebo. Falconer seated himself at the table and watched as the African poured him tea. Though his throat was parched, he could not make his hands reach for the cup.

  “You were taken to the market?” Nebo asked.

  Falconer gave a terse nod.

  “Market?” Bernard asked.

  “For men,” Nebo said, his eyes fastened on Falconer.

  Soap sighed a release of tension and leaned back in his chair.

  Nebo said, “It is hard thing to face, this market for living flesh. Especially for you, I think. A man who once worked this trade.”

  “I feel as though my very soul has been branded.”

  “Here is what I think.” Nebo planted two muscular arms upon the table and leaned forward until Falconer could not avoid his gaze. “I think your God very pleased with you.”

  The words enabled Falconer to take his first steady breath since leaving the corral. He met the African’s stare, his only response.

  Nebo leaned back, satisfied. “Tell us what we must do next, Falconer.”

  Before Falconer finished with his directives to Soap, Wadi returned. Falconer demanded, “I thought you were guarding the men.”

  “You tell merchant you pay him in gold. He guards them with his life.”

  Nebo grinned at the sound of his friend’s voice. “See now,” he r
umbled in his own deep tones. “Rain falls in desert.”

  Wadi fastened his good eye meaningfully upon his friend, then returned his attention to Falconer. “They whalers, out of some place—the name I cannot say.”

  Newfoundland, perhaps. Falconer felt another piece of his plan fall into place, though he did not know at the moment precisely how it would work. “You did well.”

  Falconer’s further instructions sent Nebo and Soap scurrying in different directions. Falconer sent Bernard off last, for his duties required the longest explanation. None of his small company dared question the odd set of orders, especially not when they were given in the terse bites of a man scarcely able to contain his emotions.

  Wadi remained with him, the customary guard that any slaver would rely on to protect his back and his money belt. That done, Falconer turned toward the innkeeper, who clearly tried not to cower at his approach.

  A voice said from across the tables, “I know you, don’t I?”

  Falconer glanced at the man. “I doubt that.”

  “So did I, at first.” The man rose from his table. Instantly Wadi moved in, hand on dagger. At that, the second man at the stranger’s table rose and cocked his pistol.

  The innkeeper stood quickly, framed in the kitchen doorway, and cried, “No, effendis, please, I beg you, this is peaceful establishment!”

  “You wouldn’t remember me. We never met properlike.” Ignoring both the innkeeper and the tense men, the stranger raised empty hands as he approached Falconer. His grin, showing teeth misshapen and yellow, was framed by a scraggly beard falling across his collar. His eyes were as cold as dirty snow. “You marching in here with that motley crew, I wondered for a bit. There seemed something different about you. Then you came back alone, and right there I remembered. Zanzibar, it was. Someone pointed you out to me. Captain John Falconer. I’m right, ain’t I?”

  At Falconer’s single nod, he slapped his thigh. “Knew it, I did. Klein’s the name. Out of Mombasa of late, though I lived all over. Where’s your ship, Captain?”

  “Lost it.”

  The spark of interest faded from the gaze. “Pity, that. On account of how I’m at loose ends just now. Me and my mate here. Drink?”

  Falconer wanted to walk away. But his plan required a smooth road, and he needed no new watching eyes reporting suspicious acts. “I’ve got to keep a clear head. There’s work ahead this day. But I’ll sit with you a minute.”

  “You’re here to buy, are you? Slaves.”

  Falconer slipped his hands beneath the table to hide their clenching. “If I can find the wares I’m after.”

  Klein paid Falconer’s tight response no mind. He wore a tattered suit that might once have been navy in color but now was shaded mostly by the desert. He filled glasses for himself and his mate. Falconer caught the old familiar whiff of arrack, the desert liquor. Klein asked, “Who’s paying for your wares?”

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  The dirty teeth emerged and vanished. Klein’s smile did not reach his eyes. “No harm in asking, is there?” He downed his glass in one gulp, then emitted a sigh that smelled of alcohol. “You need an extra pair of hands?”

  “I’m buying a half dozen slaves, no more. Obliged, but we can handle that.”

  “There’s bandits aplenty on the roads west. Even more if you’re headed toward Alexandria.”

  Falconer deflected the probing question. “If you’ve heard of me, then you know how I am in a fight.”

  The implied threat was tossed away with another empty grin. “Well, if you change your mind, we’re your men. Been beached here far too long.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Falconer rose from the table.

  Klein tossed back his drink. “Shame you arrived when you did.”

  Falconer halted in the process of turning away. “Why is that?”

  “On account of the monthly market being done six days back.” Klein examined his empty glass. “You bought yourself the dregs, you did. And paid top dollar. See what a man like me could do for you?”

  “I’m grateful for the offer. But I hold to different ways.” Though the words jammed hard in his craw, he forced himself to add, “But I’ll pay for your advice. Let me buy you your dinner.”

  Though visibly frightened of Falconer’s menace, the innkeeper had spent years taking gold from hard men. His English was extremely poor, so Wadi was forced to translate. The innkeeper twice stumbled in his haste to obey Wadi’s bidding.

  By the time Soap and Nebo returned with the three chained men, Falconer had negotiated what he wanted with the innkeeper and taken possession of a small corral behind the tavern. Their camels and donkeys were tethered by the gate, leaving an open stretch at the rear where the wooden fence joined to the ancient city wall. They were clearly not the first to bed down close to their newly acquired charges, for tent rings hung from stout posts imbedded deep in the earth. Falconer watched as Nebo staked the three newly purchased men to the post furthest from the gate. Soap left and returned with a meal bucket, rags, water, and a canister of salve.

  While the men ate, Falconer helped Nebo raise their tent, using it to mask his movements related to his new acquisitions. The three men hunkered tight together and watched him with red-rimmed suspicion. Falconer called softly, “Soap.”

  The seaman murmured, “All clear.”

  Falconer dropped to one knee and swiftly unscrewed the ankle bracelets. He then dropped the keys by the men. He kicked a dust covering over the keys to hide them from prying eyes. Falconer rose and stepped back to lean against the wall. Back in view of any who took the alley down behind the tavern. He crossed his arms and scowled at the men. Just another slaver inspecting his new charges. “I must ask you to keep the chains on for now,” he said, his lips barely moving.

  Their leader watched as Nebo knelt and began spreading the yellow grease over their wounds. He directed his question at Falconer. “You’re Christian?”

  “I am now. Before that, a slaver.” Falconer let that sink in a moment, then asked, “You’re American?”

  “Canucks, the three of us. Name’s Randall Sands. This here’s Bert. The young one there is my brother, Rufus.”

  Whatever number of years Rufus might have carried must have been multiplied a hundredfold by his recent experiences. “You were taken off the Canaries, I hear.”

  “That we were. With nineteen months’ oil in our hold, floundering in rough waters and easy prey. We’re all that’s left of fifty-eight good men.”

  His brother began trembling so hard his chains rattled. “We’re…we’re free?”

  Falconer murmured, “First we have to get you out of here. And we can’t do that until we free two captives from the fortress.”

  “They’re held in the dungeons?”

  “Aye.”

  “You must have a good plan, then.”

  “I hope so.”

  The man called Sands glanced at his two mates, then asked Falconer, “What do you want us to do?”

  The manner of their appearance drew stares but not suspicion. Falconer did not walk so much as take possession of the land where his boots trod, stalking the earth as only a commander would. Wadi strode a pace behind him, the faithful guard, his hand resting upon the hilt of his scimitar.

  Bernard Lemi did not walk but rode his day’s purchase. More than a mere horse, it was a prancing desert beast. It was also a declaration. Riding such a steed with a man like Falconer at his side meant this seemingly weak and untested dandy possessed either wealth or power or both. Nebo strode on Bernard’s left, his hand upon the stirrup.

  No wonder the desert people stopped and stared.

  Bernard held embroidered reins with bright golden tas- sels. He wore new gloves of Moroccan leather. His dusty jacket had been replaced by the sort of cloak a prince might wear, velvety in feel and desert yellow in color. The tasseled edge fell across the horse’s flanks. “You’re certain this is necessary?” he said from the corner of his mo
uth.

  Falconer rested one hand upon his pistol and met every pair of eyes with a scowl. No one looked his way for long. “I told you what the slaver said. The market is done for now, and we overpaid. Our actions will be watched with great attention from now on.”

  Tunis, or Carthage, as most of its inhabitants preferred to call it, was not a pretty place. Yet the central plaza possessed an aura of ancient vigor. The square was over a mile wide and surrounded the double harbor. The outer harbor was small by current standards, built as it was two thousand years earlier and meant for galleons. The inner harbor was more cramped still, less than a hundred paces wide. The port’s outermost wall was a mound of crumbling stone that rose thirty feet above the water. A single tower, the lone surviving remnant of an old harbor fort, rose at the wall’s end. The inner harbor was bordered by a wall only slightly taller than a man. Falconer had seen other such ancient harbors, and he knew the inner harbor was normally used on only two occasions. The first was against a storm great enough to push waves over the outer harbor wall.

  The other was a time such as now, when danger lurked out to sea.

  Across the harbor, the square’s eastern rim was bordered by a long line of fancy inns. The lane fronting these taverns was broad and smooth-stoned and shaded by reed mats. Pedestrians in fine robes filled the promenade, followed by servants waving fans in the still afternoon air.

  Falconer’s band entered the square from the west, which contained an array of the city’s wealthiest shops. The promenade on this side of the harbor was even broader, the reed shade mats laced with colored yarns, such that the stones underfoot were rainbow streaked.