“Kait!” John’s hand was slipping out of hers as the churning mob pulled them apart. “Hold on!”
Ethan’s hand slipped out of Kaitlin’s. She felt herself buffeted against the bars. The crying and shouting voices thrummed against her ears, drowning out her own thoughts.
“Kait!” John’s cry was nearly swallowed in the din.
“Johnny!” Kaitlin felt her fingers slip away from her brother’s. “John—ny!” she screamed.
And then the weight on Kaitlin’s body grew heavier. She couldn’t see John or Ethan anywhere. Only the crazed faces of strangers, desperate eyes that looked right through her in their desperation to escape. The bodies were crushing her against the bars. A leg jutted out, and she lost her footing. Instantly, the current dragged her down. A foot stepped on her calf.
“Agh!” she screamed. “Please! Help, Johnny. Ethan. I can’t move…I can’t…”
And then Kaitlin was on the ground. Legs, knees, and feet were kicking her, stepping on her, pressing her down. Someone stomped on her back, and she felt the wind knocked out of her. Pain lanced across her body. She felt the cold iron of the nearby cell pressed to her temple. The iron edge dug into her cheek.
Mam! She cried. Her mouth was moving, but no words came out. She didn’t have enough air to speak. Mam, where are you? Help me. Please…I need you…
Kaitlin could feel herself slipping into darkness. The twisted mass of condemned souls writhed over her body. Her eyes closed. The damned of the Underworld were dragging her into the pit.
There was a scream. The crowd erupted in cries of alarm and broke apart. Kaitlin felt a rush of cool air as bodies moved away from her.
“Off her, you fucking devils!” cried her brother. “I said get off her! Get off her or blow you to fucking bits!”
Prison torchlight fell on Kaitlin’s face as dozens of bodies fled from her. John came to her side, a smoking grenade in his hand, the fuse fizzing and smoking. The terrified prisoners climbed over each other to escape the bomb. He reached a hand down for her, and she grabbed onto him like a drowning girl clinging to a raft.
The moment John had her hand, he tossed the grenade into one of the abandoned cells. He led her away at a run, shoving slaves aside. A second later, the grenade detonated behind them. All sound vanished into a tinny ring. She looked back and saw slaves fleeing from the explosion, but it went off in an empty corner behind the bars and none appeared hurt.
The next moments were like the haze of a dream. Kaitlin ran down the aisle, carried along by her brother’s hand. Her ribs were battered and bruised, her ears ringing, her head swimming. She could only vaguely remember their purpose, and she held onto that hand as if it were her only tether to the mortal world. They soon caught up to Ethan, and together the three of them ran up another flight of steps and emerged into the light of day.
###
For the second time, Kaitlin led her brother and Ethan through the attic window of Buford’s River Falls Trading Post. The sounds of rioting slaves roared in the streets. She quickly led them down to the taproom but was disappointed to find no one there. A few embers still burned in the firepit at the center. Beams of late afternoon light danced in the eyes of the mounted deer heads. Flies buzzed over a partially butchered lamb on the bar.
“Where’s Buford?” Kaitlin wondered aloud.
“It doesn’t matter,” said John. “Kait, you said there was a way into the sewer from here?”
“Aye,” said Kaitlin. “Buford hid an entrance to the sewers under his larder. I’ve used it before.”
“Good.” Ethan limped around the bar, toward the kitchen door. “Not a moment to waste.”
“Come on, Kait,” said John.
Kaitlin followed Ethan and John, only to pause a moment behind the bar. Something caught her eye—or rather, something that was missing.
Buford’s large seven-barreled gun, normally displayed above tapped barrels, was gone.
Chapter 51
The Janissary Docks
The City of Tunis
Time Until Low Tide: 1 Hour, 12 Minutes
The sun was low on the horizon when the Wolf of Tunis floated free of the docks. The tide swiftly pulled her toward the boom, which still barred the harbor entrance. Declan ordered the crew to drop anchor until his children arrived. But that had to be soon, or the ebb tide would be lost. A short while ago, there had been a calamitous explosion in the Lake Fort. Declan and his skeleton crew watched from the deck of the snow brig as Naim’s tower and much of the castle collapsed. He wasn’t sorry to see his former prison destroyed, but he worried for the fate of Johnny’s friends—and sweetheart. Beyond the walls of the Janissary docks, the din of battle was deafening. A mob of chanting citizens had taken to looting.
“Captain, we’ll have to weigh anchor soon,” said Thomas Keane. He was standing with Declan near the wheel.
“I’m not giving up on them yet.” Declan’s cane tapped toward the gangway. “We’ll give them a wee bit longer.”
“Aye, sir,” said Keane. “But we can’t wait on the boom. We have to lower it now.”
Declan looked at the massive twin chains spanning the harbor entrance, connected by the two watchtowers. The moment it went down, any pirate in sight would know something was wrong. But it couldn’t be helped—it would take most of his men to move the massive tiller in the north tower. Meanwhile, there was still gunpowder and shot to be ferried over from the south tower. “Right, then. Take a crew to get it done. But lend me a couple strong backs for the launch. I’ll row over to the powder magazine and collect a few more supplies.”
“Captain, there’s plenty of powder aboard and enough shot for several broadsides. Why strain yourself—?”
“We’ll need all we can get. This ship is about to face a fleet of pirates. It’ll take more than a few broadsides to escape. Snap to it, Thomas. We haven’t the time for debate.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Sometime later, Declan steered the jolly boat while two of his men rowed. The others were in the tower, turning the boom tiller. With a deafening grinding of metal, the massive chains sank into the harbor. As he watched the boom come down, Declan was thinking of Nora.
Declan is sweaty and covered in holystoning water. He steals another glance at the trio of well-dressed ladies. They’re young, energetic, and laughing at one another’s jokes. But it’s the one in the middle that has his eye. A woman with long sienna hair, a laugh like the music of chimes, and eyes that burn with adventure. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. He’s working out how he’ll ever win her heart. To buy time, he turns his attention to the blemish on Lady Morrigan.
A gull has been most unkind to his freshly painted figurehead. He’s twenty years old, looking at his first ship, purchased and rebuilt with every penny he’s ever earned. He won’t let those lasses see his first command in such a sorry state. He leans forward with his rag, his body bent over the water, reaching for the dropping on Lady Morrigan’s cheek. He can almost reach it…almost…
Splash!
Declan is engulfed in the icy water of Belfast Harbor. He comes up sputtering and coughing. His hands fumble at the docks, missing the mark in his hurry to save face. Some captain he’s turning out to be—already fallen overboard. He hopes none of the other sailors see him. As he struggles for a hold, he’s astonished to see a delicate hand outstretched. He looks up to see the young woman who’s captured his eye, her brown locks shimmering in the sun like copper.
O’Regan’s daughter has an amused smile. “Need a hand, there, sailor?”
His heart is pounding. His throat is too dry to speak. “I uh…” He’s embarrassed at the grime still clinging to his hand. “I mean to say…”
She chimes with laughter. “Well are you going to take my hand, or should I leave you to drown?”
With a smile, Declan accepts. She helps him get ahold of the dock. A moment later, he’s standing before her, soaked and dripping. Her two companions are standing in the stre
et and giggling at the spectacle. “I’m…so sorry to trouble you miss. And to dirty your hand.”
“It’s nothing that won’t wash out,” she says. “Is this your ship?” Her eyes sweep over every line of the hull, every spar. She’s filled with wonder.
“Aye,” Declan says. “I’m the captain.”
The beautiful young woman looks up at the crosstrees, to the furled sails of the mainmast. She recites a few lines of poetry. “‘To unpath’d waters, undream’d shores… Nothing so certain as your anchors, who do their best office, if they can but stay you where you’ll be loath to be.’” She pivots toward him again, taking in a deep breath of morning air.
Declan has never been a very literary man, and so he scratches his head. He wants desperately to impress her. “Ah. Right. That poem is…one of my favorites. A wonderful call to adventure.”
The freckles on her nose scrunch as she giggles. “It’s not a poem, Captain. It’s Shakespeare. From The Winter’s Tale.”
“Ah…right.”
“And…” She tucks her arms behind her back and strolls up to him. Her eyes are big and filled with mirth. Her look of wonder is infectious. “Camillo wasn’t calling Perdita to adventure. The opposite, in fact. He was warning her to stay home. A warning meant to be broken, if you ask me.”
To his own amazement, Declan hears himself say, “And…if I asked you, would you sail to those undream’d shores…with me?”
She blushes and looks away.
“Or for a start…” Declan hurries to add. “Just along the river?”
“I might. If I knew the captain’s name. For a start.”
“Right. Captain Declan Sullivan at your service.” He takes her hand and plants a kiss. Their eyes meet, and they smile like shy youths.
She says, “I’m Nora.”
Declan looked beyond the Lake of Tunis, toward the Mediterranean Sea. “I’ll get them home, love,” he whispered. “I swear it on my life.”
Chapter 52
Near the Gates of the Janissary Docks
The City of Tunis
Time Until Low Tide: 24 Minutes
John pushed with all his effort, and the iron sewer grate scraped open. Every muscle ached. Every breath felt like not enough. He crawled into a narrow alley shaded by a patchwork of awnings. The stone path, barely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, zig-zagged around the haphazard buildings like a maze.
In the streets beyond the alley, John could hear the roar of a furious mob, the shouts of soldiers, the clash of swords, the pleading of slaves in Lingua Franca, the chants of angry Tunisians. The sun had set, plunging all the world into the dim glow of twilight. That meant time was almost up. He reached a hand down and helped Kaitlin out of the sewer. Ethan took his hand next, hopping one-legged up each rung.
The grime of the underground passages reduced John and Ethan’s pirate clothes to beggar’s rags. Kaitlin’s beautiful blue kaftan was stained with gutter runoff. Ethan’s steps left drops of blood in the alley, and his face was clammy.
John still wheezed from inhaling the burning granary dust. He coughed black phlegm into his hand. “Kaitlin, how far is the gate?”
Kaitlin’s eyes roamed the twilight sky above the alley. “Those people sound so angry.”
“Kait, look at me.”
Kaitlin met his eyes, but she seemed distant. Detached.
“How far to the Janissary docks?”
“Not far. Maybe fifty strides—down the street beyond the alley.”
Ethan limped up beside John and rested his back against the wall. “Do you think Declan will be there?”
Nora’s silver watch snapped open in John’s hand. He looked disparagingly at the hour hand. It pointed to the Roman numeral VI. The minute hand drifted past I. The ebb tide would be lost in a matter of minutes, and with an angry mob in the streets, fifty strides might as well be fifty miles. But he wouldn’t let Ethan or Kaitlin hear doubt in his voice. “Declan will be there. Let’s go.”
John led the way down the alley, with Ethan’s arm over his shoulder and Kaitlin close by his side. When they reached the corner, they hugged the wall, and John peeked around. The alley led another twenty paces to the street where a mass of humanity convulsed in the thoroughfare. Groups of Tunisians were gathered around the odd recaptured slave, beating them or dragging them by the chains on their feet. A Janissary on a white Arabian horse whipped a group of citizens with his riding crop, spurring his way through. Many of the crowd raised scimitars to the sky as they chanted and marched. John ducked back behind the corner.
“How bad?” asked Ethan.
Kaitlin had a glassy stare, as if she already knew the answer. They weren’t going to make it.
“It’s bad,” said John. “Looks like the Janissaries control this quarter. The escaped slaves are on the run…” A cough interrupted, and he fought for air.
“Johnny…” said Kaitlin, worry in her voice.
“I’m all right, Kait,” John said. “How many of those smoke sticks you got left?”
“None. I used them all. Johnny, we can’t go out there. We have to go back—”
“We’re not going back! We go forward.”
“I lost my rifles,” said Ethan. “You’ve only got one pistol. We won’t make it.”
“We’ll make it!” John said. “We’re still dressed like pirates. And I’ve got these.” He produced the pair of shackles taken from Kaitlin at the granary. “You’re a master of disguise, right, Kait? Ethan and I will be pirates, and you’ll pretend to be our prisoner. We’ll blend into the crowd.”
Kaitlin shook her head. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You can. It’s only fifty strides. Don’t lose heart now. We’re so close.”
“The porch is in sight…” Kaitlin murmured, as if only to herself.
Ethan smiled. “Hey, I like that.”
“Exactly,” said John. “The porch is in sight. You broke us out of a castle full of soldiers. You got us safely across the city. This is the easy part. Ready, Red Hart?”
Kaitlin looked at her feet. After a moment, she met John’s eyes with renewed resolve. She nodded.
A few moments later, John, Ethan, and Kaitlin made their way to the edge of the alley. Steps away, a maelstrom of chanting citizens churned in the street. Gangs of them were scattered about, crowding around captured slaves, cursing them, beating them, stoning them. A crowd on the opposite side of the street raised fists as they marched west, in the direction of the bastedan. Pirates and Janissaries were shoving east, heading toward the Janissary docks. In all that chaos, no one had taken notice of three travelers in the shadows of an alley.
“This is it,” John said. “Remember, we’re pirates delivering a fugitive. Slow and steady. Like we haven’t a care in the world.”
Ethan slipped his arm off of John’s shoulders, knowing he had to appear as ambulatory as possible. But the moment he put weight on his leg, he nearly lost his balance and collapsed. He grabbed John’s arm. “You have to leave me. I’ll slow you down. Get Kaitlin to the ship.”
“Forget it,” said John. “You’ve never abandoned me, and I don’t aim to abandon you. Besides, I made Grace Auldon a promise. We’re getting on that ship. Together.”
“John…”
“Together! Or not at all.”
Ethan gave a single nod. “Aye, all right. Together.”
“Together.” Kaitlin balled her hands into fists. She wore the shackles, but they weren’t locked.
“Let’s go.” John stepped into the street first, his eyes hard with purpose. Citizens and corsair fighters flowed around him, assuming him to be one of their own in the growing darkness. Kaitlin walked in front of him. Ethan limped alongside. The street was wide and far across. It ended fifty strides to the east, at the gates to the Janissary docks, as Kaitlin had said.
It was the longest walk of John’s life. He forced himself to take slow strides through the crowd. He felt the warmth of bodies pressed close on all sides, Tunisian citize
ns shouting and raising fists, so close he could smell the incense on their clothes, the coffee on their breath. Most of them had their attention on the parades of recaptured slaves, poor wretches with bloodied faces and swollen eyes. A few passing citizens glanced at the three. John gave them a pirate’s glare. He could feel Ethan and Kaitlin’s anxiety, but he forced himself to set an unhurried pace.
Thirty strides from the gate.
A woman screamed and wailed, and their eyes snapped to an alleyway. A slave woman had been dragged between the tenements by several pirates. They stripped her of her ragged frock, one holding down her arms while another forced himself on her. Her wails of horror cut John to the bone.
“Johnny!” whispered Kaitlin, staring at the woman’s plight.
“Eyes forward,” John said. “There’s nothing we can do. Don’t stop.”
A body shoulder-checked John. He reached under his kaftan for his dagger, but the Janissary who bumped him was already trotting past. They pressed on, and the crowd thickened. The bodies pressed closer.
Twenty strides from the gate.
John’s heart pounded. Sweat poured down his face. The smell of the burning granary and it’s hundreds of tons of grain blew on the wind. Ashes floated down in dark flakes. The smoke had had a familiar smell, oddly reminding John of Christmas on the Wandering Hart and roasted chestnuts. His lungs convulsed. He kept his lips sealed, suppressing his coughing as much as he could. The faces of his enemies were all around him—close enough that he could see the color of their eyes, the tick in their expressions as they yelled, the shape of their beards. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to draw his weapon. To push his way through. To run for his life. But their only hope was to match the pace of the crowd. To blend in.
Fifteen strides from the gate.
Hope grew in John’s heart. The crowd thinned out as they neared the Janissary docks. Fewer and fewer bodies were in their path, and they picked up speed. Most of the soldiers were busy trying to disperse the crowd and take possession of the slaves. A few mounted officers flashed swords and shouted orders. With the chaos of the slave revolt and the mobs emerging from their homes, no one took much interest in the barred gates of the harbor. On the walls, John could see two men dressed like Janissary guards, with sashes veiling their faces. They had to be Declan’s crew in disguise. If they weren’t, it was all over anyway.
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