Awake, dear heart, awake! Thou hast slept well.
Nora’s cherished quote from The Tempest, her favorite Shakespeare play. John noticed the look of wonder on Declan’s face as he stared at the timepiece. John handed it to his father. “Here. I think this belongs to you, Declan.”
Declan smiled, taking the watch and dangling it from the silver chain. “I still remember the day I gave it to her. We were watching the sunset from the docks of Marseilles. I delayed our departure while the watchmaker crafted her anniversary present.”
“I remember that!” John smiled. “I was nine, maybe ten. Mam berated the dockmaster over his endless inspections. He kept swearing he hadn’t ordered any.”
“The poor Frenchman nearly hurled himself off the docks,” said Declan. He and John shared a chuckle. “Your mother was so angry—until I told her the real reason for the delay.” Declan smiled silently for a moment, his eyes wandering over the happy memory.
Across the harbor, Declan’s crew were already in the rigging of the Wolf of Tunis, readying the vessel for departure. A circle of gulls wheeled and cried overhead. The three men were silent a moment, then Declan spoke again.
“Your mother once told me Prospero was warning Miranda: Sleep too long, and you’ll miss the beauty of life…” Declan’s eyes reddened as he fought back tears. He handed the watch back to John. “The watch is yours now, son. Hold onto it—for luck.”
John accepted the watch with a nod. His father had lost the love of his life, a thing John could only recently understand. He thought of Dominique, trapped in the Lake Fort, fighting for her freedom. If anything were to happen to her, he could never forgive himself. He patted his father on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Declan. I’ve always been lucky.”
“We should get going, John,” said Ethan.
John nodded and drew the pirate cloak over his shoulders. Then he and Ethan jogged to a side gate, where Buford waited to escort them to the River Falls. John tossed a wink over his shoulder.
“But if my luck runs out, there’s always steel.”
Chapter 45
The East Minaret
The Palace of the Bey
Time Until Low Tide: 9 Hours, 53 Minutes
Kaitlin Sullivan pulled her legs close. She sat on the roof of the minaret, back against the clay shingles of the spire, her feet propped against the stone parapets. Gunshots and clashing metal reverberated from streets in every direction—the sounds of soldiers’ voices were unmistakable in their intent. The men fighting in the streets hated each other. Feared each other. Wanted to hurt and kill each other. So many of them working so hard, breaking everything in sight, inflicting pain with weapons of every kind. Why? What could be worth such misery?
Here, on one of the highest perches of the city, Kaitlin had a view of the palace grounds and the streets beyond. The gardens, walled courtyards, and palm-shaded paths within the palace walls were peaceful. Servants and courtiers, like most citizens of the city, were hiding indoors, ready to weather the storm. Nizam-I Djedid soldiers patrolled the ramparts, sometimes trading fire with Janissaries on nearby rooftops. But in the streets beyond, Naim’s troops fired at the bey’s men from behind barriers of wooden spikes. Soldiers charged each other on horseback or fought from house to house. A massive mob clashed on the Bey’s Road with sword, dagger, and bayonet.
In the side street directly below her, the Janissaries toppled a shoddy barricade of wagons. They were between the bey’s granary and the palace wall, trying to force their way in a side door as Djedid fired down on them from the walls. To the west, a grenade concussed. Several voices raised wails of agony. From a street several blocks away, she heard a screeching whinny. Somewhere, a horse was crying in pain, wounded from the battle. Kaitlin wondered if the horse was calling out for her mother, begging for comfort in the midst of her agony. All this destruction, all this suffering—and Kaitlin was the cause. She buried her face in her knees.
“Remember how we used to scold you for running?” Nora says.
Kaitlin and her mother are kneeling opposite one another. Varlick Naim towers above them, the multi-stringed crossbow that shot Rune still in his hands. Kaitlin is so terrified. Her family has fallen into the clutches of a monster. But Nora’s hazel eyes are pools of tranquility. How can she not be afraid? But then, she’s Mam. She’s always been brave. She’s always known what to do. So Kaitlin listens.
“You’d fly so fast, so dangerously,” says Nora. “Just like a rabbit. No one could catch you.”
“I remember.” A terrible dread is creeping into Kaitlin’s soul. Her mother is going to ask her to do something important, but she doesn’t know if she has the strength.
“Good.” Nora looks in Kaitlin’s eyes. “Now fly, Rabbit!”
The next several minutes are a blur of fire, heat, and fear. She hears Naim’s shriek as her mother bites him. Feels the explosion throw her and Rune into the air. Hears her father’s cry of despair. She doesn’t see her mother die, but she doesn’t need to. When she later crawls, exhausted, onto the beaches of Tunis, she can feel it in her soul. Her mother’s light has gone out of the world. Kaitlin is alone.
“Mam,” sobbed Kaitlin. Tears wetted the white leggings under her kaftan. “I need you, Mama. I miss you. I miss you so much.”
###
The River Falls Trading Post
Near the City Bastedan
Time Until Low Tide: 9 Hours, 14 Minutes
The map of the Silver Road had a child-like quality. A sketch on old parchment, with key buildings drawn as crude blocks, smashed close to landmarks. Arrows pointed out hidden ladders, little-known ledges, boards serving as bridges—the collection of rooftop crossings that thieves used to traverse Tunis in the night. The paths snaked and forked all around the city. Many were only one directional—a five-foot jump down, a ladder missing the lower rungs, a trap door with no way up. It all formed a hidden maze around the city, with the bastedan as the center.
The paper crinkled as John rolled up the map. He stood on top of the building adjoined to the River Falls windmill, the heat wringing sweat from his brow. He looked across the rooftops. Clay and limestone tenements were built one atop the other, smashed together with no attention for symmetry—as if each second or third story were an afterthought. Fluttering blankets served as doors. Small potted gardens of olive palms, squash plants, or date trees baked on the flat roofs. A maze of rickety ladders served as stairwells from doors to balconies, balconies to patios, patios to shacks. Clotheslines and the occasional city gate spanned the streets and alleys.
“There.” John pointed to a building near the alabaster palace of the bey. It had few windows, only three stories, and walls of chalky limestone. It was less than a mile away as a bird flew, but quite a bit farther on the circuitous Silver Road. “That’s the granary. We’ll sneak inside, unlock the smuggler’s tunnel, and use it to get Katie out of the tower.”
“What about the Janissaries?” Ethan squatted low as he scanned the skyline, arms draped over knees. “Or the Djedid? The place could be swarming with them. We might not be able to get close to the granary.”
Gunfire crackled in the streets. Skirmishes were breaking out among the Janissaries, the Nizam-I Djedid, and the variously aligned pirates. John snapped open his mother’s watch. It was synchronized to the marine chronometer on the Wolf of Tunis. The precious minutes until low tide were already ticking away.
John snapped the hunter-case closed. “Hopefully, the soldiers will be too busy fighting each other to worry about a storehouse full of grain. At least we know that will be the hard part. If we move fast, the Silver Road should get us there within the hour. If all goes well, we’ll be back with Kaitlin by tea-time.”
Ethan took a long pull from his drum-shaped canteen. He wiped a runnel of sweat from his close-cropped hairline. “Then I guess we better get moving.” He hung the canteen on his belt and stood up. “Let’s hope no one cares much about a couple of corsairs on their roof.”
John and Et
han were dressed as Barbary Pirates, with loose kaftans and trousers over their Navy waistcoats and breeches. John had chosen a blue cloak and kaftan from the supplies in the south boom tower. Ethan wore a gold robe and white pantaloons. Turbans and cowls further obscured their faces, but a Tunisian wouldn’t have to look too closely to see through the disguise.
A cannon report drew John’s eyes east over the lake. Dozens of ships circled the Lake Island, taking pot shots at the fort. Despite the encouraging sign that Dominique had delivered the key and thus helped the Allegheny crew take the castle, the naval siege was a bitter reminder. It wasn’t only Kaitlin’s time running out. While John had been holed up at the River Falls forging Naim’s chronicle, Dominique had been fighting for her life. With the coming of a new day, he could only hope she was unharmed.
Seeing John’s stare across the water, Ethan said, “John.”
The voice of John’s first friend in the Americas roused him from his troubles.
“Dominique will be all right. Don’t forget—she’s got Melly with her. And Lieutenant Ryland.”
“Aye,” John said. “Say what you will about Aubert, but at least he’ll give the pirates a fight. Let’s go.”
Ethan led the way along the tavern roof, away from the windmill and toward the walls of the bastedan. After a few steps, John felt his lungs tightening and his old wounds aching. With Ethan’s back turned, John reached into the pouch given to him by Buford. He took a pinch of the qat leaves and chewed. Their bitter taste was revolting, but as soon as he swallowed the juices, he felt a tingle of euphoria. His pain began to fade. His energy started to rally.
“You all right, John?” Ethan said over his shoulder.
“Just fine.” John hid the Qat under his kaftan. “Right behind you.”
Chapter 46
The River Falls Trading Post
Near the City Bastedan
Time Until Low Tide: 8 Hours, 59 Minutes
There were no patrons in the River Falls taproom. The windows were shuttered, the tables wiped, the firepit cold. Only the stuffed heads of bucks and bears provided company, and their voices were silenced years ago. Beyond the stone walls of the repurposed windmill, men shouted and musket balls flew. Occasionally a poor unfortunate pleaded for his life. There was blood in the streets, and more where that came from.
None of this concerned Buford, the man who turned his master’s abandoned windmill into a thriving black market. The sound of Tunisians tearing each other apart was as bland as a church fiddle tune. A skinned lamb carcass lay across his bar, all red muscle and white sinew, its tongue hanging from its mouth. He brought down his cleaver with practiced skill, cleanly severing the hind shank from the hips. Butchering always brought him calm. But not today. The violence didn’t bother him. Thoughts of harm coming to Miss Kaitlin did. Still, there was stew to prepare.
The bone knife sang on steel as Buford honed the edge. Recent events had been trying for Buford. His days of following men with grand ideals were long over, which made his unexpected part in John’s Sullivan’s plan all the more bothersome. Yes, he liked Miss Kaitlin. But a small effort to help her had gotten out of hand. He liked his life to be simple. Boring. And there was also the matter of his eternal recompense…
He set about slicing the lamb leg into neat steaks.
Thud, thud, thud.
Buford looked up at the door. It rattled on the hinges as someone knocked.
“Hmm.” Irritated to have his chore interrupted, he pulled a cloth from his shoulder and cleaned the blood from his hands. He ambled to the door.
Thud, thud, thud.
“Buford!” cried the familiar voice on the other side. The man added in Lingua Franca, “Open this door at once.”
“I shall answer directly.” Buford unbolted the door and threw it open.
A heavyset man swept into the room. He had a beard down to his belly and a robe of many colorful layers. Three ruffians armed with daggers, swords, and pistols followed. The garishly dressed man appraised the taproom as if he owned the place. And in point of fact, he did.
“Master Al-Musa Re’is.” Buford bowed deferentially. He addressed the man who owned him with the honorific of a captain, even though Al-Musa had only ever invested in corsair raids. One such investment had resulted in the capture of a Tennessean sailor—perhaps his most profitable return. “Have you come to inspect the receipts of your establishment?”
“Indeed, I have,” replied Al-Musa in English. A hint of a London accent suggested his brief spell as an Ambassador. Since those years, he’d become one of the most powerful businessmen in Tunis. Due in no small part to Buford’s talent for commerce. “But first, a pipe.”
“Of course, Master.” Buford went into the kitchen and found his master’s favorite long-stemmed pipe, packed it with tobacco, and brought it out with a cup of coffee.
Al-Musa sat comfortably at one of the empty tables while Buford waited on him. The pungent scent of coffee and smoke filled the room. The three guards stood quietly nearby. After smoking for a few moments, the slave master said, “Strange times we live in, yes Buford? A retired assassin, the Sultan’s army, the bey, the Janissaries—all come to blows. It will be blood, I think.”
“Likely so.” Buford kept his eyes low.
“Please, no need to be so formal. Sit.”
Buford’s eyes rolled up to his master, and though he felt like standing, he obeyed the order. The chair groaned under his weight.
“You have fought many wars, yes?” said Al-Musa.
“I have.”
“Who do you favor to win?”
“The Janissaries have numbers.”
“True.” Al-Musa wagged a finger. “But the Nizam-I Djedid have discipline and newer weapons. And a man that has survived the Ottoman court as long as Varlick Naim does not begin a battle he cannot win. I know a good investment when I see one.”
“As you say, Master.”
“Tell me.” Al-Musa drew on his pipe, speaking from the corner of his mouth. “What do you know of this fugitive? The man the Chronicler is after? I hear he is from your homeland across the sea.”
“My home is the Smoky Mountains. I know of no Tennesseans sought by the Chronicler.”
Smoke poured from Al-Musa’s nostrils. “Careful, Buford. You make me a lot of money, but my patience wears thin. Varlick Naim has offered a reward to any man who brings him an American named John Sullivan. Or his friends. Or his sister—the thief known as the Red Hart, so they say. All this time—the Red Hart was a girl!” Al-Musa chuckled.
“I have heard similar rumors.”
“What good fortune!” Al-Musa pantomimed a look of delight. “I hear rumors too. Rumors that you have fenced goods for this thief. That you have sheltered her. And let us not forget your humiliation of the master of girls—it took many unpleasant audiences with the bey to undo that episode.”
“On occasion, I have offered a place of parlay for the Silver Hand, among others.” Buford opened a pouch of tobacco and started a chew. “I do not recollect your objection to the profits of said parlays.”
“Enough of your pretense!” Al-Musa tossed the pipe and it went clattering across the table. “You’ve made me a wealthy man doing work unfit for a Muslim’s hands, and in return, I’ve allowed you a position of privilege. I can even overlook the rumor I heard about you leaving the house of Janissary Kalkan—shortly before the ‘Nizam-I Djedid’ murdered him. With a kitchen knife.” As if to make his point, Al-Musa flicked his eyes to the butcher knife still buried in a lamb shank on the bar. “Kalkan was a degenerate boy-lover. He will not be missed. But Varlick Naim is offering a small fortune for these fugitives. Stand in the way of coin, and you cease to be useful. Now, where is the girl?”
Buford’s eyes drifted to the guards in the shadows. They returned hard stares, one of them moving a hand to the grip of his pistol. For a moment, the tavernkeeper considered crushing Al-Musa’s skull, grabbing the butcher’s knife, and forcing them to shoot him to death. But if Buf
ord wanted that outcome, he would have killed his master years ago.
“The girl is a common pickpocket,” Buford said. “She is of no consequence.”
Al-Musa gave an effeminate laugh. He curled the tip of his beard with a finger. “Buford, you are ever a fountain of amusement. Selim’s murderous court calligrapher is razing the city over her and her brother. Come now, no more jests.”
“I regret I cannot oblige.”
Al-Musa’s finger paused mid-twirl, his beard hanging from his hand like a curtain. “I could threaten you, I suppose. Or burn down this house of sin. Send you to break rocks in the quarry. Have you shot.”
The men in the shadows shifted at that, one of them clicking back the flintlock of his gun. Buford sat calmly as ever.
“But you and I know that is not needed, yes?” said Al-Musa. “Because if you do not give me what I want, I will do the one thing you do fear. I will set you free. You will be on a ship for your smoking mountains before another sunrise. What do you say to this, Mountain Man?”
An image ran through Buford’s mind. The battered face of a Cherokee war chieftain held underwater. Blood carried on a rippling river surface. Buford’s hands around the Indian’s throat. The day Buford learned Purgatory isn’t a place after death. It’s a single moment in time, ageless and eternal. Miss Kaitlin had bloomed into his life where nothing should be able to grow. A lone iris in a burned-out forest.
Buford poured himself a glass of whiskey. “I will not deliver the girl unto harm. Furthermore, any that hinder her freedom will be the objects of my wrath.”
Al-Musa ground his teeth. “You are treading on dangerous ground, you ungrateful—”
“However.” Buford emptied the whiskey glass in a single draught, amber drops running down his beard. “Sullivan and his Negro will be yours before low tide.”
“A counteroffer, then. Intriguing.” A smile spread across Al-Musa’s face. He extended his hand. “What is that phrase you’re so fond of? ‘We have an accord.’”
Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat Page 37