Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  “There was at least one good reason your old man knelt for the pirates. To save your life. That counts for something.”

  Chapter 48

  The Janissary Docks

  City of Tunis

  Time Until Low Tide: 7 Hours, 13 Minutes

  A part of Declan Sullivan longed for the quarry.

  “Heave!” said Declan. “That’s it lads. Many hands make light work.”

  Pulleys whined as Declan and ten other men hauled a cable on deck. Overhead, the main foretop yard hoisted ever higher against a cloud-dappled sky. The planks of the quarterdeck were soaking up the midday heat. He and the other sixteen freed slaves on the docks were sweating through their threadbare tunics. Their bare arms reddened in the sun. Miserable as it was, Declan had learned to bear hard labor as a slave. But his eyes kept drifting across the lake to the island fort—his prison for the last year—wobbling in the heat like a desert mirage. Thoughts of Naim’s torments and the war raging in the streets reminded Declan of the stakes.

  My children are out there, Declan thought. Johnny and my darling Katie. What if they can’t find each other? What if something happened to her? What if some soldier gets a lucky shot on my boy?

  The seventeen freed slaves worked tirelessly. With every passing minute, the Wolf of Tunis became more seaworthy. And with every passing minute, Declan’s anguish got worse. Clearing the decks, mending the rigging, loading supplies—it was work meant for seventy. Declan’s hands were raw, his muscles tied in knots, his joints cracking. In the quarry, such daily drudgery was bearable because one lived it moment to moment. But today, the fate of his family hinged on every back-breaking task. He kept a grip on sanity by sheer will, knowing if he faltered he would revert to a weeping invalid. To survive, his mind escaped into his most cherished memory.

  “What do you think, Tommy, lad?” Declan asks Thomas Keane.

  “I think,” says Keane, “the only thing sinking faster than your savings is that old bucket.”

  They’re both standing on the wharf at the River Lagan, looking at a fifty-nine-foot schooner in the harbor. Her single mast looks grand, fitted out with yards and a spanker boom. Her fresh stripe of red paint and gold trim—lovingly applied by Declan himself—shimmers in the sun. The figurehead of a black-winged maiden in a red dress leans forward under the prow, ready to let fly a raven. It cost Declan every shilling he’s ever earned at sea, but his dream has come true. He is the captain of his own ship.

  “Nonsense!” says Declan. “The Morrigan just needed a little careening and a few repairs. Look at her lines—she’s a diamond in the rough, she is.”

  “You ought to have stayed a first mate under Captain Dearcy,” says Keane. “Who’s going to risk a consignment on that little jolly boat?”

  “I already got my first consignment, Tommy lad,” crows Declan. “Linen, bound for…”

  Declan trails off. He looks across the waterfront street, bustling with carriages, dockworkers, and townsfolk. Three women are stepping out of the clothier’s shop. Each of them wears a beautiful dress and an elegant hat. At the center of them is a young woman with long sienna hair, a petite freckled nose, and a laugh like silver chimes.

  “Captain!” said a breathless Thomas Keane. He climbed aboard the gangway. He was dressed in the red and gold layers of a Janissary kaftan. A bork hat and veil obscured all but his eyes. “We have a problem.”

  “Keep hauling, lads,” Declan said to his crew as he stepped off the line. He met Keane at the port gangway and asked, “All right now, Tommy. What is it?”

  The sound of shouts came from the main gate of the dockyard. Beyond the stern, he could see one of his men up on the wall, the other standing behind the heavy wooden door. Like Keane, Declan had ordered them to dress in the dead Janissaries’ clothes—decoys to patrol the walls for the benefit of any passersby. Now, the one at the door was listening to someone shout from the other side.

  “Pirates are at the gates, Captain,” said Keane. “They’re demanding to be let in.”

  Declan’s cane thumped across the deck. He went to a dunnage trunk at the base of the main mast and rummaged through its mess of pirate weapons, canteens, munition pouches, and assorted equipment. “What have you told them?”

  “Jacobs speaks their tongue passably, but he’s kept it to few words, as you ordered. He told them the docks are closed by order of the bey.”

  “Good, Tommy. You did good.” Declan found the coiled whip once used by the captain of the Wolf of Tunis. “Let’s go.”

  Moments later, Declan was limping up to the gate alongside Keane. There was a smaller door nestled within the towering wooden slabs, and this had a viewing slot through which Jacobs addressed the pirates. Angry eyes were glaring through the slot, and Declan could hear their ranting. Jacobs kept repeating his practiced lines. Though Declan didn’t understand Arabic, he could tell the pirate was suspicious. If this went badly, they’d be ramming down the door, and all would be lost.

  “What do we do, Captain?” whispered Keane. “We haven’t the men to fight. If they figure out who we are and what we’re up to, we’re finished.”

  Runnels of sweat dripped from Declan’s brow. His chest felt tight as if a stone slab were crushing the air out of his lungs. Every breath was another Herculean effort. Five years ago, Declan had been a confident merchant captain. Today, his broken slave mind wanted only to beg for mercy at a master’s feet.

  “Take this.” Declan handed the coiled whip to Keane. They were only a few paces from the gate now. “Tuck it under your belt. Quickly.”

  “What am I to do with this?” Keane looked at the whip skeptically, then stuffed it under his bandolier.

  “I’m going to talk to the corsairs. When you see me make a fist, you pull out the whip and use it on me like an angry master.”

  “What?! Captain, have you gone mad? I can’t—”

  “You will!” snapped Declan under his breath. And yet, his own words went against every fiber of his being. “You see my fist, you whip me and curse me for disobeying my master’s orders. You see me make another, you whip harder. Don’t spare it now, Tommy!”

  Keane looked at Declan with worry in his eyes. “Aye, Captain. I got it.”

  Declan stepped up to the view slot in the gate, the angry eyes of a pirate glowering at him. He looked at his feet, playing the part of the cowering slave. The feint wasn’t far from the truth. “How may I serve, masters?” he asked in Lingua Franca.

  “I did not ask to speak to a slave rat!” said the pirate. “I asked for the Janissary in charge. There are weapons in that tower. Weapons we helped win al corso. We demand our share! Now, open up.”

  “Humble apologies, masters, but I cannot. My Janissary master bids me tell you none may enter.”

  “Go and fetch your master, you flea-bitten dog! I want to hear it from his lips.” There was a grumbling of agreement from the pirate’s companions.

  Sweat beaded on Declan’s forehead. Fear coursed through his veins like snake venom. He could feel every instinct begging him to admit the truth. His back twitched with the promise of a lash. He knew what was coming, and he was afraid. “Please, honorable sirs. My master will beat me if I disturb him to—”

  “A beating is only half what I’ll do to you. I don’t believe you, dog. Now open this door! Open it, or I’ll wreck it down.”

  “All right, all right!” Declan cried. “Please, I’ll open the gate. I’ll open the gate.” Declan reached a hand for the wooden bar across the doors. With his other hand, he closed a fist behind his back.

  “What are you doing, slave!” shouted Thomas Keane. He sounded every bit the enraged Janissary.

  The pain was like a hot poker hitting his flesh. The whip snapped across Declan’s back, and he fell to the ground. “Please, Master,” he cried. The blow had been terrible—and still not enough. He wanted anything in the world but another beating—anything in the world. But if his children had any chance at freedom, he had to close his fist. And so he did.
Keane whipped him as badly as the slave drivers ever did.

  There was only one place Declan’s mind could go to survive.

  The young woman’s eyes scrunch as she smiles, and something in her joy captures his imagination.

  “Poor Declan. That’s O’Regan’s daughter,” says Thomas Keane, noticing Declan’s lovestruck stare. He nods toward the Morrigan. “You’ve a better chance with this old lass. At least she’s within your reach.”

  The beautiful woman laughs again. She suddenly looks over at Declan. Her brow furrows as she catches him staring.

  Declan panics and turns around. “What lass?” says Declan, scratching his head. “What was I saying?”

  Keane shakes his head. “I suppose you’re going to talk to her, then. No point in trying to pry that fool notion from your head.”

  “Talk to her?” Declan swallows. “What do I say to her, Tommy?”

  “What else?” Keane gives a churlish grin. He pats Declan on the shoulder. “Tell her you’re a captain.” And then he walks off.

  Declan’s heart is racing. He takes a deep breath. He’s been whipped about in the crosstrees by a hurricane, but that was a plum pudding next to what he faces now. He turns around.

  The other two women are whispering at O’Regan’s daughter with hands over their mouths. All three are grinning in Declan’s direction.

  A wave of nausea washes over the newly minted captain. He pretends to be distracted by the figurehead of the Morrigan floating beside him at the dock. When he looks at Lady Morrigan, though, he notices a gull dropping on her cheek. And after he only just applied a fresh coat of lacquer! He pulls the kerchief from his back pocket and leans over the water.

  The whip snapped across Declan’s back, cutting strips through his ragged tunic. Keane played his part well.

  “You fool!” cried Keane. “Putrid worm! You were told to send them away. How dare you disobey your master. You’ll get it even worse when he comes down here.”

  The pirates watched in stunned silence. Naturally, they found no great travesty in a slave taking a beating. But they were surely forming an idea about the temperament of the man in charge of the docks. The display had probably been enough. Probably. Declan closed his fist a third time.

  There was a half-second pause. In the side of his eye, Declan could see Keane’s look of shock. Of horror. And yet, Keane swung again. This time, the stroke took with it a strip of Declan’s flesh. The old captain wailed and sobbed, and it wasn’t an act.

  “Please, master.” The old captain begged. “Mercy. Mercy, please.”

  “Er, tell your master…” said the pirate through the view slot. “We didn’t realize the docks were closed by Janissary decree. We’ll…come back later.”

  There was a shuffling of feet, and the pirates were gone. One of Declan’s sailors slid the view slot closed.

  Keane waited one second, then two, then three, allowing time for the pirates to be away. Then he threw the whip aside and dropped to his knees beside Declan. “Captain, are you all right? Oh God, Declan. I’m sorry. Declan!”

  Declan didn’t look at his first mate. He was curled up like an infant on the limestone wharf, eyes gazing out toward the Lake Fort. He mumbled quietly to himself. “That poem…it’s one of my favorites…wonderful call to adventure.”

  “Captain, you’re not making sense,” said Keane. The others were crowding around now. “Declan, are you all right?”

  “Aye, a wonderful poem…If I asked…would you sail to those undream’d shores?”

  “Captain!” This time, Keane gently slapped Declan’s cheek. “Snap out of it now. Snap out of it, hear?”

  Declan looked up at his first mate. “Tommy, lad. Are they gone?”

  “Aye, Captain, they’re gone. Your plan worked. Are you all right? What’s this about a poem?”

  “Nothin, Tommy. I’m fine, lads. Look alive now.” Declan used his cane to climb to his feet. His men gawked at him. But he just put on a smile and hobbled back toward the ship. “Many hands make light work.”

  Chapter 49

  The South Minaret

  The Palace of the Bey

  Time Until Low Tide: 6 Hours, 49 Minutes

  They’ve found me! Kaitlin thought.

  Footsteps echoed from inside the tower. She tilted an ear toward the terrace. Someone was coming up the stairs. She looked over the parapet. Seven Nizam-I Djedid soldiers fanned out from the tower doors and gathered at the eastern crenelations. Little did they know the Red Hart was hiding right above their heads. They were discussing the Janissary positions as one of them scanned the city with a spyglass. A third turned toward the minaret spire, and Kaitlin darted out of sight.

  They’re not looking for me, Kaitlin realized. They’re on the lookout for Janissaries in the streets. She quietly wedged herself between the spire and the parapet. More Djedid were pouring onto the opposite tower veranda. What am I going to do?

  A glint flashed in Kaitlin’s eyes. For a moment, she saw nothing as she scanned the palace outbuildings—the stables, Janissary barracks, the seraglio manor, the sprawling buildings of the bey’s quarters, and the palm-shaded paths. Sunlight shimmered in the fountain at the center of the grounds, an oasis of peace in a city roaring with battle. Nizam-I Djedid manned the walls and the defensive towers in groups of three to six, but most of their comrades were beyond the palace, manning the barricades in the roads. The light flashed over her eyes again, and she looked down to the east, beyond the palace wall closest to the minaret. Her heart leaped at the sight.

  Johnny!

  Her brother and his Navy friend Ethan were looking through a square porthole near the top of the granary roof. They both wore the turbans of Tunisian corsairs--John with a blue kaftan and Ethan with a gold robe. The granary stood a stone’s throw from the palace wall and the base of the minaret. In the street between, a contingent of Nizam-I Djedid soldiers were organizing weapons and supplies. Kaitlin’s plan had worked--Buford must have told John of the bey’s smuggling tunnel under the granary. But her brother had come too late. She couldn’t climb down the tower stairs with soldiers on the terrace.

  From her high perch, Kaitlin made eye contact with her brother. Undoubtedly, he saw the Djedid soldiers below her feet. She reached under her cloak and felt the row of valari throwing sticks at her belt.

  If she knew her brother, he would come for her, and she aimed to be ready.

  ###

  “Damnit,” John cursed. He was standing on a small platform for lowering grain, which extended from a third story door of the granary. “We’ve got to get them off of her.”

  “I know what you’re thinking John,” said Ethan. He was standing beside him, looking up at the minaret. Kaitlin was returning their signal from the spire, but she was trapped by the soldiers milling about on the terrace. “You can’t charge up there and take them all single-handed.”

  “I can try.”

  Ethan gave a wry grin. “Funny.”

  John peeked over the edge of the platform to the alleyway below. At least a dozen Djedid soldiers were setting up barricades in the street between the walls of the granary and the palace. They had a pair of horses tethered to a munitions cart. John ducked back inside. “You’re right--we can’t go storming the tower with Kait surrounded.”

  “Then how do we get her back?” Ethan asked.

  John looked around the dark storehouse. He and Ethan came in through a door on the roof and found the place empty--a strangely peaceful place amidst the sounds of battle outside. Hundreds of bags of dry bulgur were stacked along three floors of mezzanines. The mezzanines ran around the walls of the granary and had several ladders leaning against their ledges. Ropes and pulleys dangled from the ceiling for the movement of goods. There were a pair of large doors in the flat roof positioned at the center of the building, which, when opened, allowed workers to bring up grain for drying in the sun. Wooden vats were situated at the corners of the double doors on the roof with troughs angled to the floors below, which would
allow the flow of dried grain into sacks. Dust floated in the sunlight streaming through a few shuttered vents.

  “It’s too dangerous to fight the Djedid in the tower,” said John. “But maybe we can draw them off. Fight them on our own terms.”

  “A distraction.”

  “What else?” John took the grenade satchel off his shoulder. He saved one in his belt pouch but handed the other three to his friend. “Drop a bag of these on that munitions cart. That ought to get their attention.”

  “Aye.” Ethan took the satchel. “And every soldier in earshot will storm the granary.”

  John looked over the edge of the mezzanine. The granary was raised on pillars to keep it above the rats, and a trap door in the ground floor would lead down into the foundations. According to Buford, that’s where they would find the secret entrance to the bey’s smuggling tunnel. “Bar the doors. Wait a few minutes after I go under the building. Then start the distraction.”

  “It won’t take them long to break in.”

  John cocked an eyebrow. “That’s why we’re going to have a surprise waiting for them.”

  ###

  A cluster of explosions went off in the alleyway below the tower. Kaitlin popped her head up. A pair of horses were braying and stampeding over several Djedid, a flaming cart trailing behind them as they trampled the incomplete barricade. There were shouts of alarm below. The soldiers on the minaret were pointing at the spectacle, looking for whoever dropped a bunch of explosives on their munitions cart. A bullet struck a soldier just below Kaitlin. She followed the sound of the rifle report. Ethan was on the small platform near the top of the granary, musket still smoking. He ducked back into the granary before any could return fire. The soldiers exploded into action, swarming back down the tower stairs. She could hear their pledges for vengeance.

  Over the next couple minutes, groups of Djedid converged on the granary from all sides. Kaitlin was alone with the corpse of the single fallen soldier, and she knew it was time to act. She jumped down onto the terrace. She peeked through one of the doors of the minaret. Nothing but an empty series of stairs winding around the stone walls. A long drop to the bottom in the hollow space between.