Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  “I’d rather he offered Naim’s head.”

  “Still, there is little harm in reading the chronicle, my sweet.”

  Hammuda sighed. After a moment, he sat up in his chair. “Very well. Guard, bring me the chronicle.”

  One of the Janissaries reached for Naim’s note, but the Chronicler pulled it away.

  “The message is meant for your hand only, my bey.” Naim took a step forward.

  “No, do not approach the throne!” Hammuda’s eyes narrowed. “You may entrust it to my minister. He is my hand. Yussef!”

  “At once, my liege,” said Sapatapa. He stepped smartly across the tiles. When he’d crossed the ten paces to Naim, he plucked the scroll from his fingers and tore off the wax seal. He unrolled the paper, then pursed his lips.

  “Well?” asked Hammuda impatiently.

  Sapatapa’s brows drew into a frown. “This scroll is blank.”

  Naim’s hand darted through the air, a tiny blade pinched in his knuckles. The first Janissary’s jugular opened and sprayed a fine mist of blood on Naim and Sapatapa. The Chronicler’s left foot shot into the other Janissary’s knee. The joint made a crisp snap as it staved in sideways. The crippled soldier screamed and fell to the marble floor. Naim swept an arm around Sapatapa’s neck and held Rahele’s fang-shaped dagger across his throat. Guns cocked. Swords scraped out of sheaths. Boots tapped forward.

  “One more step…” hissed Naim, “…And he dies.”

  Naim’s mask of diplomacy fell away. Hatred burst free from his eyes. With one arm, he half-strangled Sapatapa. With his other, he pressed the blade to his hostage’s gullet. The pampered object of Hammuda’s affection trembled in Naim’s grasp, eyes filled with terror.

  “Wait!” Hammuda waved a hand at his guards. “Stay back! Stay back!”

  With eyes locked on the panicking bey of Tunis, Naim listened to Janissary feet scuffing backward. Fingernails scraping on pistols. Leather belts shifting with posture. Even with his back turned, Naim could see the room in his mind’s eye, as the Empire’s assassins had trained him to do. He could hear his enemies’ breathing, smell their sweat, feel their anxiety.

  “The chronicle I would deliver is not written,” Naim said. “And it is not of the sultan’s hand. This chronicle is my own.”

  “Unhand him at once!” cried Hammuda. “Or I’ll have you beheaded!”

  “Listen well, you fat old cur!” The words dripped from Naim’s lips like venom.

  The bey started as if he’d been struck.

  “You will order your palace guards to surrender to the Nizam-I Djedid. You will order your palace servants to turn over all weapons, horses, and munitions. And you and your sinful lover will slink back to your chambers like the bleating sheep you are.”

  “This is madness!” cried the bey, his voice cracking. “The sultan will hear of this treachery. He will put you to death!”

  “Before the sultan ever hears of this day, I will raze your palace to the ground. I will run your streets red with blood. And I will butcher you on your throne like a fattened calf. But first…” Naim reversed the grip on his dagger, brandishing the point like a hook. He hovered the blade over Sapatapa’s flesh, tracing a line from Adam’s apple to navel. Sapatapa cringed and sucked in his stomach. “…I will slit your companion-in-sin from throat to thigh. I will decorate your throne room with his entrails.”

  “What you ask is impossible! The Janissaries will never accept Djedid rule.”

  Naim pressed the point of his dagger into the soft flesh above Sapatapa’s belly button. Blood gathered around the tip like a blossom. Naim whispered in his hostage’s ear.

  “Please.” Beads of sweat collected on Sapatapa’s pampered skin. “Give him what he wants. He’ll kill me. I don’t want to die. Not like this. Not in front of you.”

  Hammuda put up a hand in supplication. “Mercy.”

  “Say the words.” Naim’s voice roared under the domed ceiling. “Or I will gut your lover and force his innards down your throat. This is my mercy. This is my chronicle, you slothful, rutting beast!”

  “Yes…yes!” cried the bey. “I yield. Guards…do as Sidi Naim commands.”

  The Janissaries around the room hesitated, their muskets still leveled at Naim.

  “I said, lay down your weapons!” shouted Hammuda. “Do it!”

  One by one, muskets clattered on the marble. Swords rang out of sheaths and were laid on the floor.

  “Pass the word,” ordered Hammuda. “All palace guards are to surrender to the Nizam-I Djedid. Go.”

  The Janissaries reluctantly filed out of the throne room. When the last had gone, the bey said, “I’ve done as you asked. Now please, let him go.”

  Naim hesitated. A part of him still wanted to butcher the bey and his minister. His dagger trembled in his hand, begging to bite into Sapatapa’s belly. With great effort, Naim fought back the urge. He kicked the minister’s legs out from under him, and Sapatapa sprawled on hands and knees. The pathetic waif burst into sobs.

  Hammuda slumped back on his plush throne, his skin sweaty and wan.

  “I’m so glad,” said Naim, “that we could finally come to amicable terms.”

  Part VII

  Sisters in Arms

  Chapter 32

  Near the Sewer Tunnel

  The Shores of the Lake Island

  Monday, September 12th, 1803

  Day 3, After Midnight

  Melisande Dufort stared across stalks of grass bending in the wind. Less than half a mile away, at the center of the tiny lake island, a few windows glinted in the dark profile of the Crusader fort. The only other break in the darkness came from the occasional Nizam-I Djedid on patrol—distant points of torchlight hovering over the landscape like fireflies. A bitter flavor seeped into her gums as she chewed. Lakewater lapped at her ankles. She spat the stick of sanguine into her wooden bowl, then mashed the contents with a stick. When she had a wet paste, she dipped two fingers into the bowl. She ran reddened fingers along her jaw, watching the movements of the guards like a great cat studying a wounded beast.

  Two hours ago, she rowed away from the shores of Carthage in Kaitlin’s boat. Sully—who was still a pigheaded ass—had continued on with his Papa, Lil Red, and Fiddles. An hour after that, she watched the Wolf of Tunis sail for the mainland with Naim and most of his soldiers aboard.

  Melisande smeared the rest of the wet sanguine chalk across the lower half of her face. Since she’d left Sully on the shores of Carthage, she hadn’t uttered a word. Adrenalin hummed in her veins. What she was about to do wasn’t a plan, or a task, or an objective. It was a feeling. It was instinct. She dropped the empty bowl and crept through the reeds. Everything above her nose was black with charcoal. Everything below was red as blood. Dressed in her moccasins, deerskin breeches, and black jerkin, unburdened of neckerchiefs and gauze and hats, she felt free. After so many months at sea, Melisande relished being alone, armed, and on land. Tonight, she was doing what she did best. Melisande was going to war.

  ###

  The Lake Fort

  Slave Pens

  Monday, September 12th, 1803

  Day 3, After Midnight

  The Nizam-I Djedid pitched Dominique Aubert into the slave cage. She landed in the dust, adding another rip to her dress. The bars slammed shut. A key clicked in the lock. The night air was a welcome relief after being locked in a castle chamber for hours. As her eyes adjusted to the sparse torchlight, she recognized the dozens of seamen, midshipmen, and officers of the USS Allegheny crammed into a box-shaped cell of iron bars. A dozen similar cages were arranged in neat rows across the courtyard.

  Most of the men, stripped of all but their trousers by the pirates, were red with sunburn. The midshipmen and officers had their shirts and coats returned to them—a gesture of respect the Djedid commander had offered before he left with Naim. Among them were Marquis Larocque, Lieutenant Ryland, and Dominique’s husband, Captain Richard Aubert. They tossed the Marquis’ wife, Angele, in the dir
t beside Dominique.

  A sailor in a neighboring cage noticed the rough treatment of the women and shouted, “Turk bastards!” Several of his mates added their own curses. One of the ten guards walking the aisles between cages thrust his rifle butt through the bars. The gun struck one of the jeering sailors in the stomach. Other sailors shouted epithets or hurled pebbles, but they backed down when the guards leveled rifles.

  “Oh, Sebastien,” sobbed Marquess Angele as she threw herself into the Marquis’ arms. “It was so terrible.”

  “Shh, mon amour,” said Marquis Larocque, nearly sobbing himself. The French nobles were a pitiful sight, huddled together against the bars. Larocque’s cut-across coat was missing most of its buttons. Angele’s elaborate brunette braids were reduced to tangles. Dominique shuddered at the tear in Angele’s dress, remembering Re’is Hamit’s assault. “These Turks are little better than animals to treat noble ladies so!”

  Captain Aubert stepped through the crowd of his officers and went to his wife. He looked somehow more pristine than the other men. His dark blonde hair was dusty, but still neatly tied back. Blood trickled from his nose and a cut on his cheek, but every button of his blue Navy coat was fastened. His gold epaulets caught a splash of torchlight as he took Dominique in his arms. “Mon chaton, I was so worried. A woman should never witness such barbarity. That man didn’t lay a hand on you, did he? If he did anything to sully your honor, I’ll—”

  “No, mon trésor.” Dominique buried herself in his arms, but their warmth didn’t bring her the comfort she expected. With a pang of guilt, she caught herself thinking of Sully. “I’m fine. They didn’t hurt me. Or Angele. Only scared us a little.”

  “This insolent henchman of the sultan—he’ll die for this. Commodore Preble will learn what’s happened here. He’ll send the fleet, and then we shall have a reckoning. Oh, yes, we shall.” Aubert barked over his shoulder, “Ryland!”

  “Yes, Captain,” said Lieutenant Chester Ryland in his clipped New York dialect. He was shorter than Richard, with a round face and close-cropped blonde hair. He had been new to the Allegheny when she sank, but the men seemed to respect him. He stepped up to Aubert and Dominique.

  “I want you to make my wife as comfortable as you’re able,” said Aubert. “See that she is able to get some sleep. No doubt this horrible day has been taxing upon her constitution.”

  “Yes, sir. Right this way, Mrs.—”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Ryland. Thank you.” Unlike the hysterical Angele, Dominique felt a strange calm. Her eyes were dry. Her head clear. But it was also a feeling of being detached. As if she were outside of herself, watching her tragedy unfold from afar. The last thing she wanted was rest. “Richard, I have something important I must discuss.”

  “You mustn’t overexert yourself, mon chaton,” said Aubert. There was something odd in his demeanor. His eyes were distant as if trying to resolve a blurry image. “Lay down and rest, darling. It’s over now. Mr. Ryland will look after you.” He started to pace around the edge of the cell, and judging by the footprints wearing a track around the perimeter, he’d been pacing for some time.

  Dominique walked beside her husband. “Richard, mon trésor, this is important.” A pair of Nizam-I Djedid marched past, glaring suspiciously at them through the bars. When they’d gone by, she continued in a whisper. “We have allies in the city, working to secure our escape from this island.”

  “Allies?” muttered Aubert a bit too loudly. “What allies?”

  Ryland paced small circles of his own, his back to Dominique and Aubert, close enough to listen in.

  “John Sullivan is in Tunis,” Dominique said. “He’s in the city, working to secure a ship for all of us.”

  “Sullivan?” Aubert gave a sour look. “Here? What the devil are you on about?”

  “I know it sounds incredible,” explained Dominique. “But I tell you, he was a prisoner here only last night. He managed to escape with the help of a thief called the Red Hart.” Dominique decided to leave out the Red Hart’s identity as Sully’s fourteen-year-old sister. Credulity could only bear so much strain.

  The captain of the sunken Allegheny reached a finger up to his beet-red cheek. He hissed when it touched. “How do you know all this?”

  “While I was alone in the tower,” Dominique continued, “Sullivan came out of a hidden door in the wall. It turns out, there’s a secret escape passage inside the large tower. It leads down to the dungeon, and it’s how he escaped. Before he left the island, I helped him secure a forgery of our captor’s ring. He’s going to use it to steal a ship.”

  “How will he accomplish that?” Ryland didn’t look at her when he spoke, pretending to casually toss a pebble through the cell bars.

  “I don’t know the details,” Dominique said. “But Sully—Sullivan—is in the city now, fighting for us. All we have to do is escape these cells and hold the fort until he returns.”

  Aubert scoffed. “My dear, he deserted the Navy. It’s plain he deserted us as well.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Darling.” Aubert looked at her through his brows as though she were a child. “I know how badly you want to believe that ruffian has a chivalrous soul, but you’ve been duped. No man can steal a ship from an enemy port on his own. The very notion is ludicrous. He got what he wanted from you and procured his own escape.”

  “John wouldn’t do that,” Dominique argued. “Have you forgotten how he helped you with Pierre Laffite? He didn’t ask for an ounce of credit. The whole Navy thinks it was the Allegheny that hauled in those smugglers.”

  Aubert finally stopped his pacing and rounded on Dominique. “What the Hell are you doing fraternizing with that Irish snotty, anyway? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Richard… Nothing, I swear.”

  “Captain,” Ryland said diplomatically, “I know Midshipman Sullivan. He may be impetuous and headstrong, but he has a keen tactical mind. And he is a loyal sort, in his own way. Your wife is merely taking after your example—exploring any possible means of escape. It is, after all, our duty.”

  Aubert stroked the blonde stubble on his face. He squinted as if fighting off a terrible headache. “Of course, Mr. Ryland. You are right.” He touched a gentle hand to Dominique’s face. “It has been a trying day. I should not have spoken so harshly. Can you forgive me, mon chaton?”

  “Mon trésor.” Dominique laid her head on his chest. “There is nothing to forgive. I can only imagine the burden you carry.”

  “Let us think no more of it. Now then.” Aubert drew her to arm’s length. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “This Turk—Varlick Naim—he’s no common corsair. He’s an assassin for the Ottoman sultan, and he’s planning a terrible fate for us all. John killed his son to escape Barbary slavery, and now Naim wants revenge. We can’t wait for rescue.”

  “Are you sure?” said Ryland incredulously. “This man sank an American frigate, captured us in violation of a treaty, and risks war with the United States—all for revenge on one man?”

  “That should tell you how dangerous he is,” Dominique said. “After spending time alone with him, I know.”

  “What does Sullivan want us to do in the meantime?” asked Captain Aubert.

  Dominique whispered, “I have a skeleton key. It opens most of the doors in the castle—and these cages.”

  Ryland’s eyes widened at the news.

  “How did you get it?” Aubert asked.

  “John gave it to me,” Dominique said. “Most of Naim’s soldiers have left for the city. Your men could use it to break free.”

  “Captain,” Ryland said, “this means we can organize a resistance. We have the numbers to rush the guards. Take possession of the fort until Sullivan returns with a vessel.”

  “Yes.” Aubert’s brows drew together. “I agree. We can begin planning at once. Dear, hand me the key.”

  Dominique dug through her pocket. “Of course. Here it is.” She slipped the key into Au
bert’s hand, careful to watch for guards.

  “Thank you.” Aubert smiled warmly at Dominique. Then he flung the key through the bars of the slave pen and sent it skipping across the aisle. The brass made a soft ping as it landed on a storm drain, then vanished into the Earth. A pair of patrolling guards heard the sound and looked about suspiciously, but the key was already gone.

  Dominique clapped both hands to her mouth.

  Ryland grabbed the back of his dark blonde hair, staring at the drain.

  “Richard…” Dominique grabbed the bars of the cage and sank to her knees. “Why?”

  “Because we are not committing suicide for the benefit of a mad Irish snotty,” Aubert cooly replied. “One man against a city? Please. Now that I understand why we’re here, I’m in a better position to negotiate our release. This Naim doesn’t want tribute? Fine. We know what he does want. We’ll offer help catching Sullivan in exchange for our freedom.”

  “Richard, you can’t! You don’t understand who you’re dealing with.”

  “One day, sweet wife…” Richard came up behind Dominique and caressed her shoulders. “…You will thank me for throwing away that key. I admire your pluck, but it is a husband’s duty to act with prudence. I am the captain of these men, and I will not let you throw away our lives for that vagabond John Sullivan. Now, get some sleep and trouble yourself no more with the affairs of men.”

  Dominique was speechless as Aubert planted a loving peck on her cheek. The captain gave her an adoring smile, then resumed his pacing around the cell. Ryland stumbled back a step, mouth still agape.

  The only sounds in the courtyard were the moans of the wounded.

  Chapter 33

  Jameson Shipping and Consignment

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Two Years Ago

  Dominique Dufort waited in the stuffy warehouse, sweating through her jerkin. Casks of whiskey, crates of indigo dye, and bolts of expensive cloth forced the queue of dirty men to crowd close. She was surrounded by smugglers with tobacco-crusted beards and grime-blackened clothes. One spat on the floorboards, chasing flies from a dead mouse. Another burped a cloud of whiskey fumes. All of them trained their eyes on the shape of her bum, accentuated by her Iroquois skirt and leggings. She needed to scratch her nethers, but she’d be damned before treating them to that particular show.