“Coffee, sir,” a voice announced from behind. “Whiton asked me to bring it up. He’s serving breakfast to the men.”
Richard turned to see Isaac Howland holding a pot of coffee in one hand and the ears of two cups in the other. “Thank you, Howland,” he said absently. “Leave the coffee on deck.”
“Aye, Captain,” Howland said. He dropped to one knee and put down the two cups. “Allow me to pour a cup for you and Mr. Crabtree.”
He was in the midst of doing that when suddenly, from all about the city, there came a piercing shriek of trumpets—a cacophony followed moments later by the high-pitched, doleful-sounding wails of men. So unexpected and piercing was the auricular onslaught that Howland jerked upward, upsetting the cups and spilling coffee on the deck.
“Jesus Christ in heaven!” Agreen cried out as the din abated. “What in hellfire was that ruckus all about at this early hour?”
Richard had his spyglass trained ashore. “It’s the Muslim call to prayer,” he said, squinting through the lens. “Get used to it. You’ll be hearing it several times a day.”
“Can’t wait,” Agreen groused as Algiers went quiet. Both inside and outside the walls, men had dropped to their knees and were bending far forward toward the rising sun like so many Druids at ancient Stonehenge. “Hell of a thing, makin’ people pray,” he added. “An’ makin’’em bang their heads on the ground t’ do it!”
“Maybe.” Richard continued to squint through the lens. “Just be careful who you say that to, Agee. Men have lost their heads here for lesser blasphemy.” He handed over the spyglass and pointed ashore to where the mole connected to the mainland. “Have a look at that long building over there. The one whose roof you can see the other side of the wall, down by the gate. What do you make of it?”
Agreen adjusted the focus. “Army barracks?”
“That’s what I thought at first. But you’d more likely find army barracks inside the forts. My hunch? It’s a prison. Caleb could be sitting in there as we speak.”
Agreen nodded grimly. “Think Caleb knows we’re here?” he asked, more to make conversation than to learn the answer. He had asked that question before.
Richard replied as he had before. “That depends on what the dey wants Caleb to know, Agee.”
“Think anyone knows we’re here?” Agreen asked, searching about the shore and the other vessels at anchor for some sign acknowledging their presence.
Richard took a sip of lukewarm coffee. “They know, Agee. They know. All we can do now is wait.”
WAIT THEY DID, until well past noon, when the searing heat became so oppressive that even a brisk easterly breeze skimming off the Mediterranean could do little to mitigate the effects of the brutal desert sun. The crew was on deck, most of them lounging beneath spare canvas sunshades strung horizontally from the foremast to the mainmast shrouds, eight feet up from the deck to permit the free circulation of air beneath them. At least topside there was a breeze. Belowdecks, conditions were as insufferable as the wait. The sun was on its downward arc and the hard black tar on the standing rigging was beginning to lose its texture when finally they spotted a slender little boat with a high, curved prow coming toward them from the jetty. Six men worked the oars, one seated in back of the other. In the sternsheets, beside the coxswain, sat a man of European descent—a Frenchman judging by the gold-on-white Bourbon flag fluttering from the boat’s stern.
At Falcon’s entry port, Richard, dressed in loose-fitting shirt and trousers, greeted a short, stubby man clad in finely cut clothes that nonetheless failed to conceal the natural consequences of gluttony. He emerged on deck panting from the exertion of climbing up the short rope ladder. His brow glistened with sweat.
Once aboard, the man managed to collect himself. “Bonjour,” he said with some flourish, bowing from the waist. “Vous êtes capitaine Cutler, n’est-ce pas? Je m’appelle Jean-Baptiste de Kercy. Je suis le consul de France ici à Algiers.” He paused when Richard seemed not to comprehend, then asked, “Vous parlez français, capitaine?”
“No,” Richard lied. He thought it best not to reveal too quickly his fluency in French. Somehow, he sensed, this deception might work to his advantage later. “I apologize, sir. I do not speak French. Nor do any of my crew.”
Kercy cast a skeptical eye at the Americans gathered about him, as if to take their measure along with their captain’s. He pulled a handkerchief from an inside pocket of his formal coat and wiped his brow.
“Vraiment? C’est dommage. Mais, pas de quoi.” He shifted to English, which he spoke hesitatingly and with a strong accent. “It is good that I speak English, non? Monsieur Logie, le consul d’Angleterre, is not here. He is called to Tangiers, alors. So, capitaine, I alone have the honor to welcome you and your compagnie to Algiers. But that is good, oui? We are friends, Americans and French?”
We used to be friends, Richard thought to himself. “We are indeed, monsieur,” he said diplomatically.
“Bon. Alors, monsieur, the dey is informed of your arrival. He extends his salutation, aussi . . . also, une invitation for . . . uhm . . . un rendezvous . . . at the palace, at the Qasbah, demain à onze heures—ah, that would be at 11:00 tomorrow morning. The time is acceptable to you?”
Do I have a choice? Richard wondered. Aloud he said, “Quite acceptable, Monsieur de Kercy. Thank you. But I am curious: Is there not a call to prayer at noon? In which the dey must participate?”
“Oui. That is so.”
“Then why a rendezvous at 11:00? That gives us only an hour.”
“Exactement, capitaine. The dey believes this first meeting will not take long.” Kercy either did not notice Richard’s raised eyebrow or chose to ignore it. “Maintenant, capitaine, I have the plaisir of extending to you another invitation. S’il vous plaît, do me the honneur of staying with me as my guest, in my home in Algiers.”
Richard had expected such an invitation from either the French or the British consul. Despite the unique opportunity such an invitation would provide to gather intelligence, he had already decided to decline. He would not ignore Jeremy’s warning: Trust no one. Nor could he ignore his personal responsibility for the family fortune stored in Falcon’s hold, to say nothing of the schooner and her crew.
“Thank you, Monsieur de Kercy. Your offer is gracious and very much appreciated. Personal reasons, however, require me to remain aboard my vessel.”
“Mais pourquoi, monsieur?” Kercy’s voice carried a tone of incredulity mixed with hurt feelings. He raised his hands, palms up, as beads of sweat trickled from his forehead down the side of his face into his short-cropped, sorrel-colored beard. “Your ship and men are safe here. I offer you a good room, good food, and wine, up there, near the Qasbah, where you will find the heat, um, not so hot.” As if to underscore his point, he again mopped his brow. “Aussi, we have much to discuss, you and I. I am your friend, monsieur. I have influence here. I can help you.”
Richard bowed in diplomatic fashion. “I do not doubt that, Monsieur de Kercy. I mean no disrespect, but I must remain aboard my vessel.”
“Is it peut-être the company of Monsieur Logie you would prefer?” Kercy asked, with what seemed like forced humor. “Because he is English? Like your wife?”
Richard bristled with resentment at the mention of his wife. She had no place in this exchange, and he had to fight back an urge to respond from the heart.
“No, sir,” he said. “I assure you, I would give Monsieur Logie the same reply.”
Whatever de Kercy saw in Richard’s eyes convinced him. “Eh bien. As you wish, capitaine. I must accept your décision. And I will do what I can for you. Tomorrow, if you wish, I will accompany you to the palace. Protocol is very important here. I can help you with that, at least.”
“I would be honored, Monsieur de Kercy.”
“Eh bien.” He turned back toward the entry port and the small boat awaiting him. “Adieu, Capitaine Cutler. À demain. Until tomorrow.”
Richard stepped in front of
him. “Before you go, Monsieur de Kercy, may I ask you to show me where the Americans are being held?”
“Certainement, monsieur. Le prison est là,” he pointed, “near the gate you see. It is called Admiralty Gate. It is also called the Gate de Jihad. On the other side of the wall is the prison—vraiment, there are trois . . . three, prisons, one in back of the other, in the area we French call la marine.” He indicated the same low-lying roof that Richard had noticed that morning.
“Thank you,” Richard said. He stared at the building, oblivious to Kercy’s grunts and mild oaths as he battled his way down the short rope ladder leading into the tender.
AS NIGHTFALL CREPT across the unruffled waters of the bay toward the bare-soiled Sahel Hills rising off to westward, cooler, more refreshing breezes wafted through the open windows of Falcon’s stern cabin where Richard, Agreen, Lamont, and Dr. Brooke had gathered for supper. Their mood was somber. No one said much simply because there wasn’t much to say. Lawrence Brooke did try to inject a note of optimism when he said, “Tomorrow, Captain, you will see Caleb. And we will know the condition of Eagle’s crew.”
“I pray that is so,” Richard replied, and said no more on the subject. After so many months of planning and posturing and preparation, of conniving and cajoling, of soldiering through the depths of anxiety, here they were at last in Algiers, in all likelihood within hailing distance of those they had come to rescue. Today was Wednesday. By Friday, God willing, they would be bound for France and the medical facilities at Toulon.
Even the normally chatty Abel Whiton went about his business in silence as he served and cleared away the dishes of a routinely simple meal of salt beef, hardtack, and the few carrots, cabbages, and apples that remained from the stores loaded aboard at Gibraltar. As soon as propriety allowed, Dr. Brooke excused himself from the table, to be followed shortly by Lamont. Agreen remained seated.
“Anything I can do for you, Richard?” he asked when they were alone.
Richard forced a smile. “I appreciate your asking, Agee, but really, no, there isn’t. Get some rest. We have a long day tomorrow.”
Agreen hesitated a moment. When Richard met his gaze with silence, he said, “Well, since it appears you won’t be requirin’ my wit and charm this evenin’, I reckon I’ll mosey along. Good night, Richard.” He scraped back his chair, rose to his feet.
“Agee?”
“Yes?” Agreen looked down. In the feeble light of four flickering candles he thought he glimpsed dampness in Richard’s eyes.
“Before you leave, Agee,” Richard said, his voice quavering a little as he looked up from where he was sitting, “I need to tell you what it has meant to me to have you on board this cruise. I don’t mean to embarrass you, but I need to say this. I would have been hard-pressed to do any of this without you. Just knowing that you were here whenever I needed you has meant more to me than I can express. I also want you to know what I hope has long been obvious to you—that you will always be more than just a friend to me. You’re my brother, Agee, as much a brother to me as Will or Caleb. And whoever finally succeeds in sweettalking you into dropping anchor—and I hope and pray that someone will be Lizzy, because I know how well you’d treat her—is going to be one hell of a lucky woman.”
Agreen stood stock still. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down once, twice. His mouth opened, but no words came out. At length he half-whispered, “Thank you, Richard. Thank you for sayin’ that. It means everything t’ me. You know the feeling’s mutual.” He forced a smile and in a louder voice more like his own said, “As to what I’ve done on this cruise, in case you’ve forgotten, Captain, that’s my job. Why you’re payin’ me so damn much money t’ do my job, I haven’t a clue.”
Richard burst out laughing. “Get the hell out of here, Lieutenant,” he said, waving him away.
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Agreen saluted, performed a military aboutface, and left the cabin.
Eight
Algiers, September 1788
RICHARD WAS UP BEFORE the change of watch at 6:00, shaving in front of the small, round mirror nailed on the wall of his sleeping cuddy and washing himself as best he could in a pint of water brought up from the hold the previous evening. By the time Whiton knocked on his door with a round of coffee, Richard was dressed in his Continental Navy uniform of white knee-breeches, white cotton stockings, dress blue uniform coat with silk neck stock to match, and black leather shoes with polished silver buckles—an ensemble that fit him just as well as it had when he had last worn it after the Battle of Yorktown years ago. Left off, purposely, was the traditional cotton waistcoat. Algiers was too hot for that. Otherwise he looked every thread the American naval attaché acting on behalf of his government—except that, Richard reflected glumly, his country had neither a navy nor a consulate nor a viable government for which to act.
At 10:30 he met Agreen and Chatfield by the larboard entry port. The rest of the crew was present as well—Pratt, Tremaine, Howland, Gardner, Blakely, all of them save for those on station by the oars in the bluff-bowed captain’s gig, swung out from its place of storage between the fore and main masts and waiting to ferry Richard to shore. They had all come to see their captain off.
“It’s time, Richard,” Agreen said. He pointed ashore at the great double doors of the entry gate swinging open. A troop of men emerged onto the narrow strip of stone between the water’s edge and the east-facing wall of the city. Kercy and his small entourage walked among what looked to be four janissaries dressed in collarless buttoned-up vests, cassocks with short sleeves, white turbans, and red leather slippers. Each of the Turkish soldiers carried a wide-bladed scimitar lashed to his waist by a wide red sash, and each gripped a six-foot, iron-tipped lance.
“Enfin, mes enfants, allons-y,” Richard responded with forced good humor. His jibe targeting Kercy, ashore and out of earshot, drew gentle laughter from the crew and cut the tension. He gestured to Chatfield to go down into the gig. “Falcon is yours, Agee. Remember: no one comes aboard in my absence.”
“Understood,” Agreen confirmed, realizing, as did Richard, that if it came to that, there was nothing he or anyone else could do to prevent a swarm of Arabs from coming aboard and doing whatever they wanted. “Good luck, Richard.”
Each man saluted the other and turned away.
THE WALK FROM the jetty up to the royal palace took twenty minutes. It was not far, but the climb was steep, and Kercy was panting so loudly with the effort that eventually even small talk became impossible. The party had to pause now and then to allow him to catch his breath. That suited Richard, for he needed time to consider his surroundings, to think. Once through the Gate of Jihad, he had scanned the prison area to his right, straining to make out who and what he could within a jumbled array of one-story, flat-roofed buildings that largely blocked his view. Every man he saw was wearing the traditional Arab headdress and haik or burnoose tied with a silk belt.
As they walked on, his gaze took in a spider’s web of winding streets so narrow that a normal-sized man with arms outstretched could touch the buildings on either side. Snaking off in eccentric directions, these streets formed an exotic white-stoned labyrinth whose exit would have been impossible for the uninitiated to discover were it not for the royal palace looming high above them, as much a guidepost for travelers within the city as was the lighthouse for mariners out in the bay. Occasionally Richard made some comment to Kercy or silently indicated a building to Chatfield, something for him to take note of and sketch later on the tablet he had brought with him. But mostly each man kept his own counsel as they waded single-file upstream against a flow of exotic humanity that readily gave way to foreigners in company with armed palace guards.
What Richard observed along the route was beyond anything his imagination had predicted. On many streets in these depths of Algiers were individual bazaars, or souks, where merchants hawked their inventories of black olives and beeswax, leather hides and wooden sculptures, coffee and salt and beans, jewelry and silks
of various colors and designs, each commodity and its traders grouped together in a designated area, apparently to ensure a competitive market. From within cozy nooks of bakeries and coffeehouses flowed the animated chatter of patrons debating the affairs of the day along with alluring scents that helped to mitigate, just a little, the constant and sometimes overpowering stench of fresh animal dung, coffee beans roasting in frying pans over open fires, and the gut-wrenching stink of freshly tanned animal hides.
The men, on foot or riding on mules, were richly attired. As for the women, it was impossible to tell; their long black burkhas and veils covered all but their eyes—eyes careful to avoid any sign of interest in the foreign men approaching them. Here and there, within makeshift stalls containing rich displays of medicinal powders and liquids, were what had to be physicians dressed in flowing white djellabas dispensing advice and medicines to those in need, their services apparently free of charge since coins never seemed to change hands. Smooth-domed mosques were everywhere, some of immense size with magnificent marble archways in Moorish tradition, each mosque designed in the round to ensure that every worshipper inside held equal status in the eyes of Allah. Near each mosque was a one-story alabaster madrasa where dark-haired schoolboys strolled outdoors in discussion with teachers or played with a ball near circular marble fountains splashing cool water.
As they approached the Dar al-Imara, the grounds of the royal palace, the din and reek so prevalent in the lower part of the city gradually abated. Here abided a different world, one centered on a broad rectangular area about the size of the Common in Boston, size being about the only basis of comparison. The residences along its periphery were more stately and ornate than any the party had seen so far, most of them two-story affairs constructed in spotless white brick and marble with decorative wrought-iron balconies set under front-facing windows. Gracing the quadrangle were numerous courtyards with fruit orchards and scented plots as well cultivated as any English garden. The few men they saw were walking with purpose from what Richard presumed was one administrative building to another, or into the palace itself, positioned in the geometric center of the quadrangle, its huge towering stone façade standing as testament to Man’s rule on earth.
For Love of Country Page 14