Ting. Ting-ting.
Two more coins hit the floor. Fat Djedid looked at his feet, perplexed. Three more followed, metal edges chittering as they rolled around the planks. The other Djedid guards looked over, curious. Fat Djedid felt around his belt, his alarm rising. By the time he realized a new coin pouch had appeared, the purse was raining gold all around him. The others walked over and went slack-jawed at the coins glinting in the lamplight.
The four soldiers uttered a string of phrases in Arabic. Fat Djedid sounded defensive. The others sounded suspicious. One of the soldiers grabbed the purse on his cheese-poaching comrade’s belt. He uttered a string of curses.
“I wonder what they’re saying,” whispered John to himself.
“The others are accusing him of being the gold thief,” Kaitlin whispered back. There was a somber note in her voice, as if she felt sorry for him.
“You understand them?”
“Of course, I do. This is my home. The mark is swearing he doesn’t know how the coin purse got there. The more he insists, the less the others believe him. His brothers are calling him a liar, a glutton, and a thief. They’re going to take him before Commander Isitan.” Kaitlin looked away. “He’ll likely be whipped—or lose his hand.”
John looked back at the four soldiers. The other three escorted Fat Djedid out of the storeroom. He smiled at his sister, but when he saw her distant eyes, his expression sobered. The guilt was written across her face. “You did what you had to do, Kait. At least he gets to live.”
“Aye.” Kaitlin pushed open the door to the storeroom. “Our path is clear. Let’s go.”
###
A few minutes later, as the sun spilled over the horizon, John Sullivan rose to standing on the sloping roof of Naim’s Grand Tower. At his feet, Kaitlin’s rope ladder led down to the water lapping at the tower edge. She’d led the way out of the storeroom, through the balcony, and along the ledge. She had climbed up to the roof, then thrown down a rope for John. The moment he hauled himself over the parapets encircling the conical roof, he breathed a sigh of relief. Almost home.
John gathered a lungful of air, reveling in the warm sun. A fair wind whipped hair across his face. He looked north, seeing the Djedid far below on the battlements enclosing the courtyard. The slave cages were empty, and they were still searching in vain. “You need a hand, Kaitlin?”
Kaitlin stood higher on the roof, checking the knots that secured her ladder to the steeple. “No. I’m almost ready. We’ll swim the lake and meet your friends at Carthage. They know where to be.”
“You really planned for everything,” said John as he took a few careful steps on the ceramic shingles. “I can’t tell you how grateful I…” John trailed off.
Kaitlin paused in her work. “What is it?”
“It can’t be,” breathed John, heart pounding. His eyes were looking northwest now, to the docks nestled between two parallel walls stretching out into the lake. Down below, a sleek, twenty-four-gun snow brig lay at anchor. The slender black and yellow hull, the two tall masts trailed by a stubby third, and the distinctly American spar deck gave away the vessel’s identity. It was the Wolf of Tunis. The American-built ship given to the detestable Bey Hammuda—a bribe to stop his attacks on U.S. ships. But it wasn’t the presence of the bey’s flagship that had John’s breath quickening.
As if pulled by a current, John drifted to the parapet of the tower roof. He collapsed onto his haunches as he watched the frigate’s crew escort a line of captives. The crew of Barbary Pirates and their Nizam-I Djedid allies swarmed around the wharf, their brightly colored jackets and pantaloons rippling in the breeze. They parted for an unbroken queue of prisoners marching from the main hatch of the ship to the dock. Dozens of men and boys stripped to their underwear. Each dragged a thirty-pound collar and chain from their right ankle. John recognized the terrified face of a ten-year-old powder monkey named Eric Long. He recognized the curly grey hair of Old Man Meadows. The gold epaulets of the former fourth lieutenant of USS Philadelphia, Chester Ryland.
“What is it, John?” Kaitlin crouched beside him and looked at the procession of prisoners. “Do you know them?”
John’s lips moved, but he struggled to find the words. He recognized the proud glare of the man marching at the head of the line. It was Captain Richard Aubert, stripped to his breeches. Only two months ago, John had been playing cards with the man. Allying with him against the brothers Laffite. He was the man who married John’s first and only love. But where was Aubert’s ship? The USS Allegheny?
Blood drained from John’s face. He watched the pirates drag a terrified woman up from the hold, wearing only her slip. He recognized the long blonde hair, crystalline voice, and fiery temper of Dominique Aubert—Melisande’s sister. Horror gave way to rage as he watched them corral her like an animal. John ground his teeth, eyes fixed on the woman he loved.
“We can’t leave,” whispered John. “It’s the crew of the Allegheny. Naim’s taken all of them.”
“Your shipmates?”
“Shipmates, comrades, friends, and…”
Kaitlin followed John’s eyes. “You know her? That woman?”
“She’s…someone important to me. I can’t leave them. I can’t leave her.”
Kaitlin’s red curls trailed in the breeze. She looked at John, her expression changed. Gone was the cocksure bravado he’d seen during their escape. Her brows crumpled. Her chin quivered. She started to tremble. “But Johnny…what can we do? I took months to plan that escape. It cost me every penny I had. It cost me everything!”
“I don’t know.” John’s hands settled on his sister’s shoulders. He looked into her eyes. “Listen to me, Kaitlin. I will never let Naim hurt you or Da again. We’re getting out of here. You and I. But I can’t leave Dom or the Alleghenies behind. I need you to trust me now.”
Tears welled in Kaitlin’s eyes. As worried as she looked, she said, “I trust you, Johnny.”
“We’re going home. All of us. And I will need your help.”
Kaitlin turned her head back to the docks. She ran a gloved hand under her nose. A tear traced down her freckled cheek. “Of course, I’ll help. But I don’t know what I can do.”
“Don’t forget who we are, Rabbit,” said John. “We’re Sullivans. We always find a way.”
Kaitlin gave a silent nod.
As brother and sister looked on, more than eighty Americans marched through the gates in chains.
Part VI
The Chronicler
Chapter 17
The USS Allegheny
Under Attack off the Coast of Italy
Friday, September 9th, 1803
Two Days Ago
An ax blade chopped through the door of the Allegheny’s cabin. Pirates shouted from the other side as they battered through. Chips of wood rained down on the captain’s fleur-de-lis rug. Dominique Aubert hid behind her husband’s blue felt card table, eyes fixed on every shuddering impact. The French cavalry swords rattled on their display mounts. Three Marines were lined up to face the door, their red coats bright in the light of the stern windows.
“Marines, stand to!” ordered the sergeant. He and the two men flanking him snapped their boots together, their posture ramrod straight. “Present!” They pointed their rifles at the door.
A wrenching sound quaked through the ship, and the whole room tilted. Cards and checks flew off the table and went rolling to port. A brandy snifter slid off the captain’s desk and shattered. The lanterns hung at a diagonal. Dominique grabbed onto the table, which was bolted to the floor. The Marines struggled to stay on their feet as they leaned into the listing of the ship.
“Oh mon Dieu,” cried Marquess Angele Larocque. The petite French noblewoman clutched at Dominique’s arm with a white-gloved hand. Threads of brunette hair had come loose from her braids, several of them plastered to her tear-stained face. “Dominique, what do we do? Mon Dieu, this can’t be happening.”
Dominique’s throat was tight with fear.
“It’s going to be all right, Angele.”
“Wake up, you silly girl!” whined Marquis Sebastien Larocque. The neat lines of the nobleman’s jacket and rakishly combed hair belied the gunfire and screams. “We are boarded, and the ship is sinking! We’ll end this day enslaved or drowned. Take your pleasure.”
“The American fleet won’t abandon us.” Dominique hardly believed her own platitudes. A few minutes ago, when she’d been hiding below decks, she’s seen cannon balls smash through the bread room. Water had poured in, forcing her, the marquis, and the marquess above decks. With the ship already sinking, her husband, Captain Richard Aubert, had no choice but to surrender to the attacking Tunisians. As far as she knew, he was still out on deck. “The pirates won’t let us drown, and the Navy won’t let us stay prisoners.”
The door broke apart. Pirates in loose pantaloons and turbans burst into the cabin.
“Fire!” cried the sergeant. The three Marine rifles roared as one, filling the air with gunsmoke.
Two pirates collapsed as bullets tore bloody holes in their kaftans. The boarders behind them returned fire. One of the privates fell with his saber half drawn, another sprawled backward against the stern bench. A wet chunk blew out from the base of the sergeant’s skull, spattering the windows with pink gore. Dominique jumped as a tooth, red as a candied apple, clicked across the deck planks.
Gunsmoke curled away as a hulking pirate stormed into the cabin, his red jerkin baring powerful arms. His nose, ears, and fingers were all festooned with rings. He scanned the scene with narrowed eyes, his goatee wrapped around a sneer. A gold plate shaped like a spoon gleamed on his felt hat. He carried a wide double-edged sword with a crescent where a point should have been. His eyes landed on the three hiding behind the card table.
Dominique’s slippers scraped back a step. She felt herself shaking under the pirate’s gaze.
“Mon Dieu,” Angele whimpered in terror, her hand clutching tighter. She was a strange sight in her opulent dress, her layers of red and pink pastel out of place amid such violence.
“Please.” Marquis Larocque raised a placating hand. His face twisted as if he might weep. “Please, monsieur, mercy…”
The pirate jabbed a finger in their direction, then turned his attention to a wounded Marine at his feet.
Three more pirates stormed into the room, stepping over the bodies of their fallen comrades. One spat on the corpse of the sergeant. The others swarmed around the card table, shouting foreign curses. Dominique shuddered as one of them seized both of her arms.
“Unhand me!” shouted Dominique.
The man shouted a single Turk word over and over, then hawked spit in Dominique’s face. She tried to blink a drop of it from her eye.
“Ugh.” The wounded Marine private was crawling on his belly toward the stern bench, leaving a greasy trail of blood across the deck boards. “Sergeant, I’m struck. Oh God. I’m struck.”
The pirate took slow steps toward the crawling man. He stopped when his thick calves straddled the Marine. The sickle-shaped end of his sword hovered over the man’s back like a pendulum.
Sensing a presence above him, the Marine flopped onto his back and looked up at his enemy with gaunt eyes. He raised a pleading hand. “I surrender. I surrender.”
Dominique fought against the cruel hands dragging her away from the table. “Please!” she shouted to the pirate standing over the Marine. He looked over at her, eyes flickering with interest. “He’s wounded. Please…”
The muscular pirate dug his smoke-stained fingers into the Marine’s hair, smirking at her. He slid the crescent across the Marine’s throat. The metal rang as it parted the flesh. He let go of the private’s hair, leaving the man to gurgle in a pool of blood.
The pirates dragged Dominique onto the deck of the Allegheny. Tears were streaming down her face after watching the murder of the Marine. What she saw next left her unable to breathe.
The USS Allegheny was a charnel house of slaughter. The Barbary Pirate ship Wolf of Tunis had been efficient and brutal—sending cannonball after cannonball ripping through the hull. Men and boys lay slain by the dozens, their bodies rolling over scraps of wood and sail cloth as the ship leaned into the sea. Severed limbs and offal collected against the bulwarks. The living sailors stood among the dead, stripped to their underwear by the pirates. The attackers roamed the deck, picking through corpses and prisoners for more loot—a silver button here, a coin purse there. The cries of the maimed and dying, the blood running in rivulets around Dominique’s feet, and the smell—like the inside of a gutted deer…
Dominique threw up. Chunks of Chef Jean-Pierre’s stew splattered on the ship’s wheel. The muscular pirate that had killed the Marine seized her arm. He dragged her through the carnage, the other pirates parting from his path.
“Take your filthy paws off my wife, you Barbary animal!” shouted Captain Richard Aubert. He stood among the officers, stripped to his under breeches. Even in the midst of his shame, he struck a handsome figure with his trim torso and pig-tail of blonde hair. He glowered at the approaching brute. “I said get your hands—”
The pirate captain backhanded Aubert, still holding Dominique in his free hand. The American captain sprawled on the deck. The Allegheny’s officers bristled, but they didn’t challenge their scimitar-wielding captors.
“I am Re’is Hamit,” said the pirate captain. He stood over Aubert, who struggled onto hands and knees, spitting blood. “And I have come a long way for this prize.”
Hamit leered at Dominique, eyelids narrow with hatred, pupils dilated with desire. She could feel the violence this man wanted to do to her, and it turned her blood cold.
“The Chronicler never told me she would be so…” Hamit pulled Dominique close and sniffed her cheek. “…succulent.”
“I’ll kill you, savage,” Aubert cried.
Hamit kicked the prone captain hard in the ribs. Aubert gasped for air, a rope of bloody snot dangling from his nose. The pirate bent close and said, “I want you to know: when the Chronicler gives the word, I will take your wife while you watch. I will defile every inch of her. Whatever is left will be an offense to God.”
“Go to Hell!” Dominique screamed. She beat her fist against his arm with fury she didn’t know she possessed. “I’ll die first!”
The ship gave a violent lurch, and Hamit had to stagger to maintain his hold on her. He bellowed an order, and the pirates herded their prisoners into the waiting boats.
Chapter 18
The Lake Fort
Slave Pens
Sunday, September 11th, 1803
Day 2, Morning
By the time they put Dominique in the cage, she was long past terror. Terror had been two days ago when she huddled in the forecastle of the Wolf of Tunis. The forward compartment had been bereft of light, tossing as the ship plowed over waves. She and Angele Larocque were the only occupants, each shackled to a bolt in the floor. A pirate gave them water and biscuits, but spit in them first. They ate and drank anyway, hunger and thirst overpowering disgust. The worst visits came from Re’is Hamit. He enjoyed standing over them, staring at their bodies. A few times, he fondled Angele, her sobs only adding to his pleasure. Once, he pissed on the poor French noble. He spared Dominique these torments, though she didn’t know why. She guessed it had something to do with whomever Hamit served.
The next day, terror gave way to shock. The pirates marched Dominique and the crew of the Allegheny into the courtyard of an island fort. Iron cages, seven feet across and half again as tall as a man, were arranged in rows under the hot sun. There were twelve in total, and the pirates crowded all of them with sailors. They put Dominique and her husband, Captain Aubert, with the officers and the Larocques. Soon after, soldiers came and took the two French nobles away. A little after that, they took her husband. To keep her mind off the terror of the situation, Dominique busied herself with caring for the wounded.
The most badly wounded officer was the Allegheny’s first officer.
Lieutenant Kimble was a twenty-two-year-old Georgian with a pious altar boy drawl. A cannonball had shattered a gun carriage near him, and a broken shaft of wood had impaled his left calf. When a seaman pulled out the splinter, it left a mess of tattered flesh.
Now, shock gave way to despair as Kimble’s wound bled through her scarf, then her kerchief, and then a piece of her slip.
“Thank you, kindly, Ma’am.” Kimble gave a wan smile. “The captain sure chose rightly in a wife.”
“No more talking, Mr. Kimble.” Dominique mopped a kerchief over his waxy skin. “You need to save your strength.”
Kimble scoffed. “For what, Ma’am? Escape?”
A pair of soldiers marched by Dominique’s cage. They weren’t like the greedy, squabbling pirates. These wore bright crimson coats and felt hats, blue trousers loose about the thighs, and boots polished to a high gloss. Everything about them suggested discipline—from their stiff collars to their shaven faces to their rigid gait. They reminded her of the British redcoats—finely dressed soldiers who helped the Seneca and Mohawk massacre every man, woman, and child in Cherry Valley—including her birth parents.
Dominique hardened her eyes. Beyond terror, beyond shock, beyond despair—there was anger. She looked into Kimble’s sunken eyes and replied, “You’re damn right ‘escape.’”
Morning wore into afternoon. Dominique and the prisoners sat on hot flagstones under the punishing sun. A smell like rotten eggs rose off the surrounding lake, adding to their misery. The soldiers were in a frenzy of activity all day. Groups of them trotted across the courtyard, along the ramparts, and in and out of the castle. They shouted clipped orders to one another. Signaled with horns. Dominique had no idea what it meant, but she guessed they were looking for something. Or someone.
Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat Page 12