Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  Kaitlin looked over at her father.

  Declan shrugged his shoulders. “Remember who we are, Katie. We’re Sullivans. We always find a way.”

  Kaitlin looked at Melisande. She drew the cowl over her red curls. “We have to hurry. Johnny’s friend is in trouble.”

  Chapter 10

  The River Falls Trading Post

  The City of Tunis

  Three Years Ago

  “I asked for a burglar,” the Jewish merchant complained. Keinan stroked his pointed beard. “Instead, the Silver Hand sends me a boy.”

  “I am a boy of only fifteen tender years, this is true,” Aruna admitted, his voice filled with characteristic bravado. “But I am no ordinary boy. I am the magnificent Aruna Taigar Pair—also known as ‘the Tiger Foot.’ And I am more than equal to your desired task.”

  “We shall see,” grumbled Keinan. “Girl! Wine!”

  “Aye, sidi,” said Kaitlin Sullivan. She hurried out of the shadows with a decanter of red wine.

  The old merchant and the young thief were sitting in a quiet corner of the taproom at the River Falls Trading Post. It was built inside an old derelict windmill. The place had round stone walls that stretched upward to a point. Aruna and Keinan sat on the second-floor mezzanine, which ran the circumference of the taproom and afforded a view of the bar below. The walls were adorned with bearskin rugs and the mounted heads of deer and other game. A stone fire pit burned at the center, with a steel stovepipe above to collect the smoke from charring meat. Even the chandeliers were carved from antlers. As if there wasn’t a single decoration but that some poor animal had to die. Kaitlin hated this place.

  She poured wine into the merchant’s glass, careful to keep her eyes downcast. Subservience was as much a part of her disguise as her silk kaftan and veil. At the bar below, a thickly built mountain man with a black beard and wild hair looked up at her. One of his eyes was lazy, making his gaze all the more unsettling. He was a Christian slave, from a place in the New World called “Tennessee,” and he had prospered by managing his master’s merchant concerns. His name was Buford, and stories abounded of his savage nature—they claimed he butchered hundreds of men, women, and children before running afoul of the Barbary Pirates. With all the money he made fencing for thieves and smuggling for Tunisians, he could have bought his freedom. But he didn’t. He reminded her of the monstrous eunuch from the seraglio who had cut down her orange tree, and she didn’t like him one bit.

  “Need I remind you, my honored client,” Aruna was saying, “It was you who lit a candle in the window of this tavern. It was you who summoned the Silver Hand. And it is we who have found you worthy to be our client.”

  “I wasn’t convinced you really existed.” Keinan eyed the young Indian boy. “I’m still not.”

  “Oh, do not worry about that, Sidi Keinan. Soon you will be quite convinced. In the meantime, the Mountain Man has told me of your desire. You wish the slave broker who killed your merchant friends to pay.”

  “Shh!” Keinan looked around suspiciously, but there were few patrons nearby. He whispered, “Yes. The bey’s slave peddlers did more than kill friends. They killed four Jews in the market and beat many more. Some were kin. It wouldn’t do to hire assassins—the resulting mob would burn down half the Jewish homes in the city. No—the Janissaries must find compromising evidence in Nassif’s home. They must never suspect a thief was there. That is a job for your master—not you, boy.”

  Kaitlin quietly went about clearing empty plates from the table. Keinan paid her little mind as she wiped up a few crumbs. He didn’t notice as she slipped her hand down to the distracted merchant’s belt.

  “That is a great disappointment,” Aruna sighed. “I suppose I will have to return your payment.”

  As Kaitlin had done hundreds of times since joining the Silver Hand, she slipped the coin purse free of its drawstring, then palmed it to Aruna under the table. Then she slipped away.

  “What are you talking about?” said Keinan. “I haven’t paid you.”

  “Are you sure?” Aruna tossed the coin purse in the air, then juggled it like a jester.

  “What, why you!” Keinan jumped up from the table.

  Aruna tossed the coin purse to Keinan.

  The Jewish merchant caught it, his frown turning into a smile. “Ah. Very clever.”

  “If I lacked the skill you require, my master would not have sent me. Now then, when would you like Master Nassif to receive his punishment?”

  ###

  A few hours later, Kaitlin and Aruna sat on the rooftop of the building abutting Buford’s windmill. They snacked on dates as they watched the tavern patrons leaving the River Falls. A swatch of light spilled from the open door, bright in the cloudy night. One of the four derelict windmill blades formed a screen across their perch, allowing them to peer over and stay out of sight.

  “I’m tired of being the serving girl, Rune,” Kaitlin said when she could stand it no longer. With the passing of her eleventh birthday had come a new restlessness. For most of the last three years, Kaitlin had been sequestered on the island of Red Mortar Redoubt, a secret hideout for the Silver Hand, several miles off the coast of Tunis. She had trained with the other young thief recruits, and being a girl, she’d had to work harder than any of them to prove herself. Only in the last few months had Aruna been taking her on select missions in the city. “I’m tired of playing the part of the dancing girl, or the helpless daughter, or the lookout. I want to go on a real mission. I want to help you with Keinan’s job.”

  “This I understand.” Aruna finished a date and licked his fingers. “But you cannot. You are not ready. First, you will master the art of disguise. Then, you can master the shadows.”

  “I’m better than any of the boys my age. Better than you were at eleven!”

  Rune laughed. “Better than the Tigerfoot? I think not.”

  “I’m tired of you treating me like a little girl. No more pickpocketing. I want to steal real treasure.”

  “Guildmaster Ibrahim has tasked me with being your teacher,” said Aruna. “In this duty, I cannot fail. I know you are hungry, Katie. And I am proud of your skill. But this city is dangerous. You will steal real treasure—when I say you are ready. Until then, you must never go out alone.”

  “And when will I be ready?”

  “When you are too good to be caught.” Aruna dusted off his hands. He rose and headed toward a window leading inside the windmill. “Come. It will be dawn soon. We’ll get some sleep and return to Red Mortar tomorrow night.”

  With a groan, Kaitlin got to her feet. Before she could follow Rune, she saw a familiar face in the square below—a face she hadn’t seen in years. It was Maajid, the “Master of the Girls”, the eunuch from the bey’s seraglio. The evil man who had delighted in dragging a little girl back from every attempt at escape, who chopped down an orange tree out of spite, and who loved to hint at her future as a child bride. Maajid was laughing with a pair of other men and seemed in no hurry to be home. Then and there, Kaitlin decided to take revenge.

  “Are you coming, Katie?” Rune had one leg through the window.

  “Coming.” She followed Rune into the attic room.

  As usual, it didn’t take long for the Tigerfoot to fall asleep after a long day. Still hearing the voices in the street below, Kaitlin quietly donned her thief’s cloak and hood—recent gifts to commemorate her journeyman status. While her mentor snored, Kaitlin stole into the night.

  ###

  It was easy to follow Maajid through the empty streets. The moon hid behind clouds, and most of the city torches and lanterns had burned out. Kaitlin hugged the walls, creeping from alley to alley. Maajid walked with the same pair of men—pirates by the look of their colorful garb. Soon Maajid would lead Kaitlin to his home, and then she would steal every valuable thing he owned. She would leave the handprint of the Silver Hand. After all, if he couldn’t know it was her, at least he could know it was a thief. She wanted to do worse. She wanted to�
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  Sloosh!

  Kaitlin’s foot sank into mud. In the darkness, she hadn’t seen the pothole filled with gutter runoff. The sucking sound was like a gunshot in the quiet street. The three men turned around. They were searching the darkness, giving her a few precious seconds to flee. Her heart raced as she struggled, but the mud was sucking her leg down like a bog. The more she fought, the more she sank.

  “Who’s there?” called Maajid in the Arab tongue—a language no longer foreign to Kaitlin. “Who’s that skulking in the dark?”

  With growing horror, Kaitlin watched the three men coming toward her.

  Remember, Rune had told her once, a good plan can always go wrong. And when it does, a good thief does not panic.

  Her training took over. Kaitlin stopped struggling. The men were only a dozen paces away now. She reached her hands into the mud, tugged the laces of her boot free, and pulled. Her foot came free with a wet pop. Kaitlin dashed for freedom.

  A hand caught Kaitlin’s arm a second before she could get away. Maajid’s grip dragged her back as she kicked and screamed.

  “What do we have here?” Maajid said. “A girl? Out at night? All by herself?”

  The three men snickered, and the sound in their voices filled Kaitlin with terror. Their faces crowded over her, silhouettes against the cloudy night sky.

  “Wait a minute—I know you,” said Maajid. He drew close to her, and she could smell the fetid tobacco on his breath. “You’re the little whelp that escaped the seraglio. Well, well, what a lucky night this is turning out to be!”

  “Lucky for who?” snickered one man. “You don’t even have stones.”

  “Shut up,” Maajid snapped. “Help me get her into the alley.”

  Kaitlin tried to scream as they dragged her behind the buildings, but one of them clapped a hand over her mouth. It stank of ale and lamb grease. Her strength was no match for one, much less three. They pinned her down on a pile of stinking fish nets. She heard her own muffled cries as they held her down. She heard the ripping fabric as they tore her kaftan. The night air raised gooseflesh on her chest.

  Please! she begged. Please, let me go. Mam…help me. Someone, please help me. But the words were lost in Maajid’s greasy hand.

  “I may not have any stones.” Maajid’s breath was hot on Kaitlin’s face. “But I promise, girl, you will feel what I do to you.”

  The other two laughed as they tore the wrap around her waist.

  “That’s funny,” said a fourth man in English. His voice was slow and musical. “I was about to say the same.”

  All three attackers looked up. A black shape loomed over them. Before any could react, the shape was in motion. There was a sound like a hammer hitting meat, then one man whimpering. The second jumped up and swung a fist, but the monstrous newcomer caught the attacker’s arm and tossed him across the alley like a sack of grain. Maajid swung a fist and struck the trunk of the mysterious man, but to no effect. The monster struck back, his fists battering Maajid’s face like great rocks.

  Kaitlin crawled back against the alley wall, hands shaking as she tried to gather her clothes against her naked chest. Two of the men fled. The clouds parted for a moment, and a shaft of moonlight illuminated the face of the Tennessean barkeep. Her rescuer was none other than Buford, the keeper of the River Falls Trading Post. His bulk loomed over Maajid, who was on his knees, blood gushing from his nose.

  “You…” muttered Maajid. “You’ll pay for this slave. They’ll cut off your hands and dip the stumps in pitch. They’ll cast you into the desert for the crows.”

  Buford was silent a moment. Then he slammed his forehead into Maajid’s. The Master of the Girls yelped and fell onto hands and knees. When Maajid kneeled upright again, he found a short knife at his throat. Buford’s blade had a hook on the end, likely used for gutting game.

  “If you wish my master to hear your grievance,” Buford explained, “he will kindly oblige. But I will consider you no longer in good standing at the River Falls.” At this, Buford hovered the hook beneath Maajid’s eye.

  Maajid swallowed hard. “I have no grievance.”

  “That is happy news.” Buford sheathed his knife and rose to his full height. “Now—git.”

  Maajid ran from the alley.

  When they were alone, Buford offered a hand to Kaitlin. “Are you all right, miss?”

  Kaitlin broke into tears, holding the torn cloth to her chest. She accepted Buford’s hand, and he helped her to her feet. He took off his outer kaftan and threw it around her.

  “Let’s get you back to the River Falls.” Buford scooped her up like a father cradling a child.

  Terrifying as the man was, Kaitlin clung to him. She trembled, unable to believe what happened. How could she have been so foolish? How could she have made such a mistake?

  “Why did you help me?” Kaitlin heard herself ask.

  “Because I wanted to,” Buford replied, as if no answer were more obvious.

  They walked for a while longer before Kaitlin spoke again. “You could have killed those men. But you didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “What if they report you to the bey? They say you killed lots of men in the Colonies. Why not them?”

  “Something I learned in the Smokies,” Buford replied. “Spend enough years killing for hate’s sake…the day comes when enemies are your only friends.”

  Chapter 11

  The Lake Fort

  Decrepit Study

  Sunday, September 11th, 1803

  Day 2, Long After Midnight

  Ethan wailed in agony. John struggled to get his foot back on the peg. The auger screeched as the Djedid soldier turned the crank, the vice closing tighter on Ethan’s hand. John’s foot steadied on the post and the screams of his friend stopped. His friend’s fingers were turning swollen and blue. The moment Kaitlin got John out of these gallows, he vowed to take revenge. The soldier with the shark eyes stared at John implacably as he stepped back from the vice. It was the seventh time the screws had tightened. How many before Ethan’s bones broke? How many before they were crippled forever?

  “I’m sorry, mate,” John panted. Half of his leg was numb. He felt nothing of his left foot except a searing ache from heel to calf. His slips were happening more often as he tired. He looked at Ethan’s swelling fingers, tears welling in his eyes. “This is all my fault.”

  A vein pulsed in Ethan’s temple. His russet eyes were filled with determination. “This isn’t your fault, John. This is Naim’s doing. Only Naim’s.”

  As much as John wanted to believe Ethan, he couldn’t. The first responsibility of any Navy officer was to the lives of his crew. His shipmates. His friends. Watching the slow destruction of Ethan’s cherished musical ability was all the proof needed: John was as miserable a failure as his father. “Forgive me, mate. Forgive me.”

  “Stop that!” Ethan snapped. “The John Sullivan I know never gives up. Never surrenders. I won’t let Naim break me, and neither will you.”

  “Brave words,” said Varlick Naim as he entered the room. “Let us put them to the test.” Naim nodded at the guards behind the gallows.

  To John’s puzzlement, Shark Eyes and Bony Nose lowered the rope suspending his wrist. His feet landed on the solid stone. His legs buckled, and he dangled painfully for a moment. He shifted the weight to his free leg and staggered upright, his heartbeat throbbing in every muscle.

  “No more balancing on oiled spikes.” Naim paused as if mulling an intriguing idea. “Rather, we shall hear your chronicle. Tell young Auldon the truth.”

  “What are you talking about?” John panted with exhaustion.

  “You know of what I speak, Sullivan. Tell your friend the truth. Tell Ethan what you’ve been hiding—about how he came to be a slave on the Tindall Plantation.”

  Ethan looked up at Naim, then to John, his expression a mixture of curiosity and affront.

  Bile churned in John’s stomach. How does Naim know? He knew what Naim wanted to hear—
a secret John had always planned to confess. Someday. In the open boat journey from Gibraltar to Red Mortar Redoubt, when Naim had been disguised as a harmless Barbary slave, John hadn’t told the full story of Ethan’s capture by the Tindalls. But what hint had he betrayed? Somehow, Naim knew—or at least sensed—the truth. “I won’t play your twisted game, Naim.”

  The Chronicler walked over to Ethan and turned the auger of one hand crusher. Metal squealed, and the bars tightened on Ethan’s right hand.

  “Aggh!” Ethan cried.

  “Goddamnit, Naim!” John yelled. “You murderous fucking scoundrel! I’ll kill you for this.”

  “Tell him.” Naim’s knuckles squeezed, ready to crank the handle another quarter turn. “Or I will crush his bones to powder. He’ll never again hold a fiddle bow.”

  “All right, all right. I’ll tell him. Just please…don’t.”

  Naim’s grip loosened.

  It took all of John’s will to force out the words. His head drooped. “What happened to you, Ethan… It was my fault.”

  “Don’t believe his bullshit, John,” said Ethan. “I already know you blame yourself. And I’ve already told you it wasn’t your fault. The Tindalls abducted forty freemen into slavery, and you set them free. That’s why they retaliated against me. What you did was right. I’d gladly suffer those three weeks again for their freedom. You know that.”

  “No,” mumbled John. “You don’t understand. That was never the whole story.”

  Ethan blinked. “What do you mean?”

  Naim folded his arms under his kaftan and paced along the crumbling bookshelves.

  “When I got back to Philadelphia, after the Chesapeake Run,” continued John, “I thought the Tindalls wouldn’t find me. But their overseer, Whitlock—he tracked me down. He threatened me and anyone I cared about. Said that those close to me would suffer if I didn’t pay Clyde Tindall for the slaves I ‘stole.’ I told him to go to Hell.”