Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  “Fine,” said Melisande. “But you keep your pretty head down, got it?”

  “Aye, aye,” said Dominique with a salute.

  “And do what we tell you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Melisande gave a wry smirk. “All right, then.”

  A moment later, Dominique was hunkered down with Melisande and her mates, listening carefully as sailors and Marines competed for her attention. They all wanted to help her learn, often talking over each other as they demonstrated the loading process: measure the powder, pour the powder down the barrel, ram down the musket and wadding with the ramrod, then more powder…It was all very dizzying, but once she got the men to stop interrupting each other, she started to catch on. After she’d practiced a dozen times and felt reasonably confident, she sat down and joined the sailors for a smoke.

  “Do you think he made it?” Melisande was looking west toward the city docks. “Do you think Sully pulled it off?”

  “I know he did,” Dominique answered. How she wanted to believe herself. “How long before the Djedid attack?”

  Melisande shrugged. “Hard to say. They’ll probably charge us on all sides. Ladders for the walls, battering ram for the gate.”

  Dominique nodded, a pit sinking in her stomach. She puffed a few more times on her pipe, listening to the tobacco sizzle. She whispered to her sister so the other men on the wall wouldn’t hear. “Melly, there’s something I want you to know.”

  “Yeah?” Melisande smacked on a chew of tobacco. She kept her eyes forward and sharp, but a look askance betrayed her curiosity. No doubt she still felt the sting of their fight a month ago. “What is it?”

  “You were right. About Richard.”

  Melisande shifted the wad of tobacco to her other cheek. “Hmph. You don’t say.”

  Dominique sighed, already regretting this conversation. “Yes, that’s what I said.”

  “Hold on.” Melisande closed her eyes as if experiencing sensual pleasure. “I want to savor this.”

  “What I mean is,” Dominique said through gritted teeth, “I know we haven’t always gotten along. And I know I have…at times…not been the most agreeable sister.”

  “Ha!”

  “Not that you’ve been a Sunday stroll yourself!” Dominique hurried to add. “But the point is—you were there for me. Christ, you crossed an ocean for me.” Saying the words aloud was harder than Dominique imagined, and she bought herself some time with another drag on her pipe.

  “Of course, Dom,” said Melisande. “We’re sisters. We have to stick together.”

  Dominique’s nose burned. A tear slipped from her eye, and she hurried to wipe it away. “What I mean to say is, you’ve…” Dominique’s voice choked up. “…You’ve always been there for me. No matter how awful I’ve been to you. And you were there for me last night. And today. And…and I love you, all right? There it is, then. Now don’t think I’ll have you lording this over me and—”

  Melisande’s arms were around Dominique. In the next second, they were holding each other tightly. “I love you too, big sis.”

  Dominique wiped another tear. A few sailors took in the spectacle of their young messmate hugging “his” sister, but didn’t say anything. “I love you, Melly,” Dominique whispered. “And I’m going to be there for you, too. I promise.”

  “You always have been, Dom. In your own way.”

  The two sisters let their embrace linger a moment. It had been a long time since they were on such friendly terms, and Dominique wanted it to last.

  A burst of light flashed across the lake. For a split-second, night turned to day. Then an earthshaking blast roared through the air. The report boxed Dominique’s ears and set them ringing. The vibrations trembled through her body. She and Melly parted, following the stunned gaze of every sailor on the walls.

  Across the Lake of Tunis, from somewhere on the city docks, a massive cloud of fire billowed into the sky. A tower had exploded, throwing flaming debris and chunks of stone half a mile. A murmur of shock passed among the men.

  “Merciful Providence,” said Meadows.

  Lieutenant Chester Ryland jogged up the stairs and leaned over the ramparts. “What on Earth…”

  Merrick made the sign of the cross.

  “Great Thunder Spirits,” said Melisande.

  But there was only one word on Dominique’s mind, and she whispered it aloud.

  “Sully…”

  Part VIII

  Day of Blood

  Chapter 44

  The Janissary Docks

  City of Tunis

  Tuesday, September 13th, 1803

  Day 4

  Time Until Low Tide: 11 Hours, 23 Minutes

  John kicked the door to the Janissary powder magazine. Despite striking away the lock with an ax, the warped planks stuck in the threshold. He looked upward along the south boom tower, wiping sweat from his forehead. The massive chains of the boom hung beneath a bright morning sky. The Janissary docks were an island of quiet in a turbulent city. Judging by the din of horse hooves, shouting soldiers, and trundling wheels beyond the harbor walls, battle lines were drawn. Janissaries would be making their assault on the palace soon.

  John looked over at the Wolf of Tunis. Her spars were still bare of sails, and much of the running rigging hung in tangles, the result of clumsy attempts to take down her yardarms by inexperienced sailors. The sun shone brilliantly on the vessel’s black-and-gold hull. Ethan and Declan waited patiently nearby as John gave the door one more hard kick.

  The door crashed in. What John saw next filled his heart with avarice.

  Weapons.

  Barrels of gunpowder. Pikes, rifles, and spears piled like kindling for a bonfire. Racks of pistols and gunnery tools. Chests filled with daggers, coins, and every manner of fine clothes. The storehouse was a shambles, but it was stuffed to its conical walls with munitions.

  John curled his lip at the Janissaries’ sloppiness. “Look at it all!”

  “Where did it all come from?” asked Ethan.

  “The Chronicler.” Declan’s Irish lilt took on an ominous tone—as if he were invoking the name of a fabled monster. John found it strange after so many years in America to hear his native accent again, spoken in the voice he’d known since birth. Declan’s cane made a hollow thump as he wound his way through the stacks. “Ever since Naim arrived here two years ago, he’s gone quietly about the city, learning every secret, making friends high and low, building a garrison of troops. By the time the bey realized his intentions, he’d already requisitioned enough supplies to outfit a small army. Add the Djedid troop ships and the bey’s Wolf of Tunis, and he even had a small flotilla.”

  “These supplies came from the Wolf of Tunis, most likely.” John rummaged through a barrel of fist-sized iron globes. Each globe had a tapered hole with a fuse. Grenades. “Why would Naim give the bey’s flagship back to his Janissaries?”

  “His game is nearing the end,” Declan said. “He’s buying off Bey Hammuda while he makes his final move.”

  “Take whatever you need,” John said to Ethan as he stuffed grenades into a bandolier bag. “But stay light enough to move fast.”

  Ethan was looking down the sights of a musket. He set it beside a rifle of similar length and pulled another off the pile. “Unfortunately for us, all these munitions have to be hauled right back onto the Wolf of Tunis.”

  “Me and the lads can handle that,” said Declan. “You boys worry about your job.”

  “We’re lucky,” said John. “Another day and they would have hauled down the Wolf’s yardarms—to make it harder for slaves to steal.” He found a coil of a slow-burning matchcord and threaded it through a three-foot holder called a “linstock.” The wooden haft had a brass pincer at the end, which held the slow-burning cord. John lit the match and stuck the linstock through the bandolier across his back. Having ready means to light things on fire always came in handy.

  There were pistols of all kinds—long-barreled, steel-plated, snu
b-nosed—and John selected the best six. Ethan had three rifles, each with a shoulder strap attached from butt to stock, and now he examined a strange triangular dagger about the length of a hand. It had a horizontal handle that, when gripped, made the point of the blade protrude from a man’s knuckles.

  “You’ll want a good sword,” John said. “There’s plenty of sabers and cutlasses.”

  “Not for me.” Ethan held the dagger, two bars of steel running along his forearm for added protection. He squeezed a lever on the handle, and two more blades sprang out from the triangular edge. The result was a handheld trident. “I prefer something smaller. More discreet.”

  “Why not use a more common weapon, like Swordmaster Pavia taught us?”

  “I’ve never had your skill with swords, John. Besides, I have my reasons.” Ethan released the lever, and the outer blades retracted. He held the dagger up to the daylight streaming through the door. “Say, get a look at that. Where do you suppose this is from?”

  John examined the base of the triangular blade and noticed the pawprint of a large cat. The symbol was embossed in white gold. “I don’t know. But this piece must be valuable.”

  “The symbol of Katie’s mentor—Rune,” said Declan. “‘Aruna the Tigerfoot’ he called himself.” He looked over a few chests of silver dining ware, jewelry, and gold-plated candlesticks. “Much of this came from Red Mortar Redoubt when Naim destroyed the lair of the Silver Hand.”

  Ethan nodded thoughtfully as he slid the dagger into a small sheath. He fastened it to his thigh by way of a small strap.

  “And those?” John pointed to a row of wooden sticks, each half the height of a man and fixed with a cylindrical canister at the end. The canisters had conical points and tails of matchcord.

  “Rockets,” Declan said. “I saw them at the base of the Silver Hand. Used for signals, among other things.”

  It was a macabre thing to look at the loot of a dead guild. Only three nights ago, Naim had forced Declan to relate his “chronicle,” in which he told the story of Naim’s attack on the island of Red Mortar Redoubt a year ago. How much of this loot came from the corpses of Naim’s enemies? How much from that terrible night when Kaitlin lost everything—including the boy she loved? There was no way to change the past, but John could damn well do something about the future.

  Over the next few minutes, the men finished collecting their supplies. John loaded his bandolier with five grenades. He fastened a box of cartridges to his belt, along with powder horn, striker, matchcord, and spare shot. An extra bandolier holstered the six pistols across his abdomen. Ace hung in a sling on his right hip, and Spade was sheathed across the small of his back.

  Ethan fastened two steel vambraces to his forearms, each filigreed with a pattern of leaves. He hid them under his sleeves. His fingers opened and closed as he tested a set of steel knuckles. Satisfied, he pocketed them.

  As their last step, the two young men dressed in pirate clothes found among the loot. Hopefully, the disguise would make it easier for them to move about the city. Then they stepped out of the tower and into the daylight.

  John asked, “All these weapons, and you choose those?”

  “You fight your way, John, and I’ll fight mine.”

  Buford stepped up to them on the docks. “It’s time you and your Negro got moving.”

  Ethan’s nose flared with anger. His hand reached into the pocket holding his steel knuckles.

  John bit back his irritation. “Buford, I suggest you bring more than a butcher knife. We have a big city to cover.”

  “I must have a word before you depart.” Buford’s boots clunked away down the docks.

  John glanced sheepishly in Ethan’s direction. The Philadelphian freeman busied himself filling cartridges from his powder horn, brows tightly drawn. John followed Buford, grateful for an excuse to avoid Ethan’s eyes.

  A part of John couldn’t be angry with the Mountain Man. During his upbringing, Nora and Declan always treated those in foreign ports with a sense of honesty and fair trade. But the Sullivans also encountered the well-dressed slaves of wealthy businessmen—invisible servants clearing away dishes, beating dust from rugs, or standing quietly beside coaches. In the naiveté of his youth, John had given them little thought. If he never endured Barbary slavery, never got taken in by the Auldons, would he have truly known the humiliating effect of Buford’s words?

  A chilling thought occurred to John. For years, he thought the duel with Tindall had been the best way to save Ethan. But what if the truth was, John hadn’t really valued Ethan’s life? What if, despite his best intentions, he had never been capable of being a friend to Ethan? Maybe John didn’t deserve Ethan’s forgiveness.

  “Let’s have it, Buford,” said John.

  The Tennessean was standing near the doors of a boathouse, his crossed eyes absently wandering over the dockyard wall. “I believe I know why Miss Kaitlin chose that tower in particular. One year ago—Miss Kaitlin’s last job. She was to burgle the bey’s palace. She and the Tiger Foot.”

  “Da told me. Naim learned of the plan and followed her to Red Mortar Redoubt.”

  Buford slipped his hairy knuckles into the pockets of his kaftan. “As part of her escape plan, she intended to use a tunnel under the street, which led from the granary to the minaret. The granary is the property of my master, Al-Musa. At his behest and on behalf of the bey, I dug the tunnel for purposes of smuggling treasure beneath the notice of the sultan.”

  Declan hobbled up to them. “The bey doesn’t like paying his taxes, eh?”

  “Just so,” Buford replied.

  Ethan joined the three men. “Then why doesn’t Kaitlin use the tunnel?”

  “The entrance to the passage only opens from the granary side. I also suspect them soldiers have her treed like a bobcat.”

  “Will the Silver Road get us to the granary?” asked John.

  “Aye, it will.”

  “Good,” said John. “You can show us the way.”

  “Much as I may be inclined,” said Buford, “I cannot, lest my master revoke my proprietorship of the River Falls. You may accompany me as far as the trading post; then you are on your own.”

  Declan’s eyes were sharp as daggers. “I knew you were no friend to my Katie. Good riddance, I say.”

  “Aye,” said Ethan.

  John stepped in front of the towering black marketeer. “You may be a no-good cutthroat, but my sister somehow got to the one piece of your soul that isn’t rotten. For reasons I can’t fathom, she sees something in you. Are you really going to turn your back on her now?”

  “Hmm.” Buford’s mouth worked as if he were chewing cud. He thought for a moment, then said, “I will assist you on one condition. I will render any and all aid to protect Miss Kaitlin until my dying day. To that end, I will give up this city and my establishment. In return, I must have your oath. One day I shall ask of you a ponderous task, and you must agree without hesitation or reservation.”

  “What a load of shite,” Declan spat. “He’s up to something, Johnny. You can lay to that.”

  Somehow, John didn’t agree with his father. Buford sounded sincere—as if he were contemplating dark deeds. But why would Buford ask him? “Buford, I’m a deserter from the Navy. When this is done, in all likelihood, I’ll hang.”

  “Perhaps,” said Buford. “Nevertheless, you must give your oath, and I must believe you.”

  “Think about this, John,” Ethan murmured at John’s ear. “Is this the kind of man you want to owe a favor?”

  All John had to do was lie. It seemed an obvious solution—tell Buford what he wanted to hear. And yet, John had crossed so many lines in his quest to liberate his family. To make a false oath would be to lose his last shred of honor. “What is this task you would ask of me?”

  “I have told you all I can,” Buford said. “You must agree, here and now, sight unseen.”

  “How could I say yes to something like that? What if you compel me to do something terrible?”r />
  “In all likelihood, I will.”

  “Then I can’t possibly say yes.”

  “Then we have nothing further to discuss.” Buford turned away and started toward a side gate in the Janissary walls.

  “Damn you then!” spat John.

  Buford didn’t reply.

  “Good riddance, I say,” said Declan. “Now, time you lads got going,”

  “Aye,” agreed John. “Declan, we’ll be back soon. We’ll need the Wolf of Tunis ready to set sail. Will you and the men be all right on your own?”

  “Don’t worry about us—we’ll manage.” Declan placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “Now listen to me, son. The flood tide will be against us for most of the day. We haven’t the men to tow a ship out of port. At sunset, we must sail with the ebb tide. If we hit low tide, the current will turn against us again, and we’ll never make it out of the docks. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Johnny? You boys have to be back here with Katie by sundown and not a minute after.”

  “I understand, Declan.” John pulled Kaitlin’s scroll from his pocket. “Katie gave me her map of the Silver Road. The rooftops will give us a quick path to the palace. We’ll be back well before sunset. But just in case, if we’re going to miss the tide, sail without us. Dominique and the others are counting on us. If the worst should happen, we’ll find another way to meet you at the island.”

  “John…” Declan’s brows trembled, and he looked at his feet. “What you’re asking—”

  “—Will likely be unnecessary.” John put a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Declan, we’ll make it. But don’t wait past sunset.”

  “I promise, Captain,” said Ethan. “We’ll bring her back.”

  Declan nodded, more as if to reassure himself.

  Cold silver touched John’s hand as he reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out his mother’s silver watch and flipped open the lid, revealing Roman numerals under stately black tines. As he’d done every morning for five years, he read the inscription—his daily call to arms: