The Sea and the Sand

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘Our best chance is to sail past him, Captain,’

  Lewin said. ‘Give him a broadside and get downwind of him, and then run for it. That way we’ll have a better chance. And a better chance of regaining the convoy, too.’

  Brathwaite continued to chew his lip for several seconds, looking at Felicity, then snapped his fingers. ‘Aye, Mr Lewin,’ he said. ‘You’re right. That’s our best chance to be sure. You get down below, Miss Crown, and explain the situation to your friends. We’ll lock the hatch from the outside, and mind you lock it from the inside as well, and be sure to have the men watch the stern windows. No one is to come out under any circumstances, except on my say so.’

  ‘Not even if the ship is sinking?’ she asked.

  He gave a grim smile. ‘It’s not their style to sink a victim until she’s been captured and looted. If they capture us, well … may God have mercy on all our souls. But we’ll do everything in our power to stand them off. As Mr Lewin says, if we can get past them and make it a straight chase, we’ve a better than even chance of sighting the rest of the convoy, or land, or something, before they can catch us. It means abandoning that poor devil …’ He looked aft again. ‘But as we can’t help him anyway …’

  ‘And if you don’t get past him?’ She gazed into his eyes.

  He sighed, and lowered his own. ‘Miss Crown, I’d not want a dog of mine to fall alive into the hands of those devils.’

  Felicity turned away, stared at the approaching vessel. Now she could even make out the crowd of men on the pirate’s deck; the morning sunlight was glinting from their weapons. They counted the merchantman already theirs. And in her heart, she knew they were right.

  She went to the companionway, descended to the cabin, where the other passengers were also awake by now.

  ‘What’s all the excitement on deck?’ Major Britton wanted to know. ‘Don’t tell us the damage is more severe than we thought.’

  ‘No,’ Felicity said. ‘No.’ Her voice was toneless. ‘We are about to be boarded by Barbary pirates.’

  She hadn’t meant to put it quite like that, but she hardly heard the commotion aroused by her statement, the screams of Mrs Flemming, the gasps of the other women, the startled ejaculations of the men. She went to the stern window and looked out at the sea; from down here the other sail was invisible. Above their heads she heard the hatch being closed and bolted. But it hardly seemed relevant. The captain had just told her to commit suicide if the pirates should take the ship. She should kill herself, or have one of the men kill her. Her! She was eighteen years old, and had everything to live for. And now she was about to die. Because nothing was going to stop the pirates from taking this ship. Captain Brathwaite might be a fine seaman, and an aggressive man, but he lacked the spark of determined willpower which alone could save them.

  She turned back to face the cabin. Major Britton and the other two male passengers were priming their pistols and examining their swords; Mr Flemming was trying to comfort his wife. The other three women huddled together on a bunk, while Peggy Flemming sat on the edge of the one she shared with Felicity and trembled, great tears rolling over her plump cheeks.

  ‘Don’t worry, Miss Crown,’ Major Britton said reassuringly. ‘No darkie is going to get in here.’

  Felicity drew a long breath. ‘The captain suggested we should bolt the hatch from the inside,’ she said. ‘Then there’d only be the stern windows to worry about.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Britton agreed, and shot the bolts on the inside of the door. ‘Now lads …’ he might have been commanding his regiment, ‘watch those windows.’

  ‘Aaagh!’ screamed Mrs Flemming, as the ship trembled to a tremendous roaring sound. ‘Oh God, have mercy on us.’

  ‘That’s our broadside,’ Major Britton said reassuringly. ‘We’re teaching those blackguards a thing or two.’

  The ship trembled again as the guns roared. Felicity remembered the Constellation’s guns belching fire and smoke, and those of La Vengeance replying. How grand the cannonade had seemed, viewed from the deck of HMS Lancer. Now it was merely terrifying and deafening.

  ‘What’s that?’ snapped one of the other men.

  Because now there was a new sound, close at hand, a deep throated roar, ‘Ul-ul-ul-Akhbar!’

  ‘By Christ,’ Major Britton shouted. ‘They haven’t been stopped by the guns.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mrs Flemming moaned. ‘Oh!’

  There was a ripple of musketry from above their heads, and then more timber-rattling cannon explosions. But these were no longer broadsides, only single shots. The women began to scream, and then more loudly as there came an ear-splitting crash which shook the ship from stem to stern.

  ‘We’re sinking,’ Peggy Flemming screamed. ‘Oh, we’re sinking.’

  ‘They’ve come alongside,’ Britton snapped.

  Felicity had been staring at the stern windows, half expecting to see a Moorish pirate appear there at any moment. The jar threw her from her feet across one of the bunks, and she remained sitting there, her back against the bulkhead, staring now at the hatchway, and listening to the shouts and screams from above her head, the stamping of feet, the clash of steel and the explosions of pistols and muskets.

  She remained curiously detached, as though she wasn’t really there at all, but merely looking down on the scene, wondering if the captain had made any attempt at all to get past the corsair, or if he had just been totally outsailed. She felt like a sleepwalker, as if this couldn’t really be happening, but was merely a nightmare from which she would soon awaken. She was moving, living, breathing, feeling … and above her was death, coming closer every minute. It just could not be happening … and it was happening in such a matter of fact, inevitable fashion.

  But she also thought how wonderful it would be if one of the American warships were to appear, now, and deal with the Moors. The rescuing party would of course be led by Toby McGann, who would put his arm around her shoulders and assure her that she was now safe, and she would know that she was going to be safe for the rest of her life.

  ‘Listen,’ Major Britton said. ‘Listen.’

  The noise above them was dying, although the jabber of voices was growing louder.

  ‘They’ve taken the ship,’ said one of the other men, his voice trembling.

  Even as he spoke they heard the bolts on the door being drawn, and a moment later the door itself creaked as someone tried to open it.

  They gazed at each other. Britton licked his lips. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I … well …’ He looked at Flemming. ‘We seem to have no choice.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Flemming said, understanding what the major was trying to tell him. ‘Oh my God!’

  Britton checked the priming on his pistol, while there were more thumps on the door. ‘It has to be done,’ he said, growing in determination. ‘If you will attend to your wife and daughter, Flemming, these gentlemen and I will see to Miss Crown and the other ladies.’ Felicity pressed herself against the bulkhead, as if trying to force it open so that she could be thrown into the sea. That would be preferable to what was happening here. She could not be about to die, killed by her own kind to save her from … she had no idea. She only knew she did not want it to happen.

  ‘Now, ladies,’ Britton was saying, while all the women stared at him as rabbits might stare at a king cobra. ‘It is necessary for you to be very brave, and to trust us that this will be as quick and painless as we can make it, and that … well, we shall all meet again in a better place. Now ladies, will you please close your eyes and turn to face the bulkhead …’

  He had delayed too long. With a crash the door gave, and men came tumbling down the steps. Felicity, flattened against the bulkhead as she knelt on the bunk, could only gasp in horror. Britton turned and fired his pistol. He hit one of the Moors, who gave a cry and fell, but before he could draw his sword was cut down himself by a swinging scimitar, his blood scattering across the dresses of the women. The other two men died a moment later. Mr Flemming att
empted to stand in front of his wife and daughter and received a sword thrust in the stomach which collapsed him to his knees, blood spurting through the fingers with which he clutched the wound.

  Mrs Flemming appeared to faint. The other three women were screaming. Peggy Flemming stared at the marauders, eyes wide, ample bosom giving enormous heaves. Felicity watched them coming towards her, saw their straggling beards and their grinning, remarkably white teeth. Only dimly she realised that they had thrust their swords and pistols back into their sashes.

  She tried to force herself still further against the bulkhead, considered kicking at them, and did so as they came close. To her horror the first man merely caught her boot, and pulled. She came away from the bulkhead feet first, sitting down heavily, skirts flying. She gasped and screamed herself, and was picked up by her arms and legs, as if she were a sack of coal, and carried to the steps. She twisted her body and attempted to kick again, all thoughts of decorum gone, but was quite helpless in their grasps; her efforts only made them laugh the louder.

  She emerged into the open air, twisting her head to and fro, gazed at dead bodies, many still oozing blood from terrible cuts, saw Captain Brathwaite lying draped over the rail, his head nearly severed from his body. She stared at the pirate ship, long and low, held beside the Poseidon by grappling irons, the two hulls grinding against each other as the ships rose and fell on the swell. Then she was surrounded by dark-visaged, grinning, bearded men, wearing turbans and loose robes, peering at her until distracted as the other women were dragged up from below.

  And she listened to the most bestial of noises from forward, where one or two members of the crew who had survived the battle were being tortured by their captors.

  Tortured! She blinked at them, saw their naked bellies and legs, the flopping penises … and the gleaming knives of the Moors. She closed her eyes tightly. She had never seen a naked man before. She didn’t know what was about to happen to those men, either, and she didn’t ever want to find out.

  Then she was herself thrown to the deck, with a jar which swept the breath from her lungs; could only pant as she stared at one very well-dressed pirate, who had jewels in his turban and on the hilt of his scimitar, and wearing a fine white tunic, although this was spattered with blood to indicate that he had been in the thick of the fighting. His features were the most terrifying she had ever seen, for his nose was huge and hooked, and his chin protruding, so that he looked like the man in the moon, save that his mouth suggested the cruellest of natures, even when surrounded by beard and moustache.

  Now he stood in front of Mrs Flemming, who had regained her senses, if not her wits, for she merely goggled at him, and screamed and screamed. The man smiled, and his face became crueller yet. Then he jerked his head and gave an order. His men roared with laughter, and Mrs Flemming was dragged away, to be thrown, still screaming, to the deck by the mainmast, only a few feet from where Felicity lay, while the pirates tore at her clothing and buried their hands in the plump flesh, one of them kneeling between the flailing white legs.

  Felicity felt sick; now it was Peggy’s turn. She gasped in horror as the pirate captain gave another order, and Peggy was dragged to the nearest cannon, and thrown across the barrel. The girl screamed and attempted to kick her legs, but these were caught and pulled apart by the eager men, while her skirts were thrown above her head.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Felicity panted. She had never seen anything so horrible in her life — and it was going to happen to her as well. She pushed herself up, wondering if she could gain the rail and throw herself over the side, but the men standing around her immediately caught her arms, pulling her to her feet and holding her between them. She didn’t know where to look, found herself staring at her friend as the captain took his place between Peggy’s legs, using only his hands to spread her buttocks, and very carefully look and feel between.

  Felicity’s legs went weak and she would have fallen, but for the men. The captain was laughing again and giving another order; his men were equally amused, and Peggy was dragged away to join her now moaning mother on the deck.

  Dimly, Felicity was aware of what the captain had been doing, what he had been seeking, and also that she should be shocked, not at what he had done so much as at what he had discovered. Peggy Flemming was not a virgin. Whatever would her mother say when she found out? As if it could ever possibly matter again; a man was now kneeling between Peggy’s legs in turn, and she was shrieking her fear and pain and humiliation.

  Felicity realised she was being taken to the captain, who had ceased smiling as he looked at her, and then slowly up and down her. Then he did smile, and made a remark. His men agreed with him, from their shout of acclamation.

  ‘Please,’ Felicity begged. ‘Please …’ If he was somehow interested in her, surely … But she was being thrown across the gun in turn. She felt hands on her legs, and suddenly the morning breeze and sun on her thighs. She was naked from the waist down before a pack of men. She attempted to move, but the men in front of her were holding her wrists, and she could only wriggle; she stopped that as soon as she felt hands on her buttocks. Then they were being pulled apart. She thought she was certain to die of shame, or a heart attack, so loudly was the blood pounding in her arteries; wept and ground her teeth together as she felt fingers probing into her, very carefully and gently, but so knowledgeably, touching her where she had never even touched herself. Then she was jerked back to her feet, panting, breasts paining from being pressed into the iron of the gun barrel, but skirts mercifully falling into place.

  Her ordeal was not over, for now the captain tore open her bodice, and felt inside, cupping her breasts and feeling the texture of her skin. Then he gripped her jaw to force her mouth open and peer at her teeth, before lastly driving his fingers into her hair, sifting it and evaluating it.

  ‘English?’ he asked. ‘You are English?’

  She gaped at him.

  ‘Have you lost your tongue?’ he asked.

  Felicity licked her lips; she could still feel the touch of his hand between her legs. ‘I am English.’ She whispered.

  ‘You have a degree of beauty,’ he told her. ‘You are too thin, but we can fatten you up. And you are the only virgin on board this entire ship. Ha ha!’ he roared. ‘You will fetch a good price in Algiers. And you will make some rich man very happy, in his harem.’ He gave an order, and Felicity was dragged across the bulwarks on to the deck of the pirate ship.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Mediterranean — 1801

  Toby McGann slowly climbed the steep street, determined not to break out in an unbecoming sweat. All the streets in Gibraltar seemed to be steep, climbing up the solid rock away from the huge, busy harbour, and although it was only March the morning sun was already warm. But if the address he had been given by the harbour master was a true one, he would soon reach his destination.

  And there it was. He paused, both to catch his breath and to make sure there was no dust clinging to his blue uniform jacket and trousers; he had recently been passed by a carriage, going downhill, and the road was in no way surfaced.

  But the view was in any event worth stopping for; it was quite breathtaking. Above him, the Rock continued to climb, for another few hundred feet, he estimated, although up there the houses ceased. By looking directly ahead, and therefore south, he saw first of all Europa Point down at the water’s edge, the southernmost extremity of the peninsular, then the dark blue waters of the Strait, always restlessly flowing eastwards, except at the very top of the ebb tide — because of the rate of evaporation in the land-locked Mediterranean there was a constant replenishment from the Atlantic — and then at the mountains of North Africa, only seven miles away, and at one hill in particular, close to the shore — the other of Hercules’ Pillars.

  To the west, he could look across the long, narrow bay at the mainland of Spain, and the port of Algeciras closer at hand, while immediately beneath him the white houses of Gibraltar itself formed a series of terraces down
to the waterfront. Down there was a myriad of ships, all riding safely and comfortably behind the massive breakwaters which protected the port. He could make out the Essex and the President, as well as several ships from the convoy, still engaged in making running repairs to the damage suffered in the gale of the previous week; not all the merchantmen had even come in as yet, although at least one appeared every day.

  As he looked he saw a battered brig, having come up the Strait on the tide, being towed by her boats through the pierheads into the harbour. She had apparently lost both masts, and was jury-rigged. The American warships had themselves not come off unscathed, although he reckoned they had been better handled than most. He had been fortunate to be allowed this brief shore leave, but Captain Barron had considered that an officer who was acquainted with the Governor’s Chief Secretary could be a useful asset to his squadron: not only did they require considerable victualling now, but they would undoubtedly have to pass this way again at some time in the future. Barron, of course, did not even know of the existence of Felicity.

  Toby straightened his hat, flicked a last imagined speck of dust from his sword hilt, and climbed the last few steps to the almost English-looking cottage, set against the side of the hill, naturally, but with a brief garden in which roses and honeysuckle vines predominated. How his heart pounded. Suppose it were to be Felicity herself who opened the door to his knock … It was Mrs Crown, frowning at his uniform, clearly not that of a British officer.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked.

  Toby raised his hat. ‘I doubt you remember me, Mrs Crown,’ he said. ‘Lieutenant McGann, of the United States Ship Essex. But last year I served on the Constellation, and had the privilege of breakfasting with you on board HMS Lancer.’

  Mrs Crown’s frown disappeared. ‘Mr McGann,’ she cried. ‘Of course. How could I forget such a … well … you are a strapping fellow, to be sure. But here in Gibraltar? The Essex, you say?’