Several at the table said, “Aye, Captain.”
“Hmm,” said Buford.
Wilson ground his teeth. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Better.” Ryland straightened his Navy coat. “I am approving Lieutenant Sullivan’s plan. Mr. Buford, ready our heated shot.”
“Hmm.” Buford lumbered out of the cabin.
“Mr. Wilson, set aside the necessary quantity of shot. Work with Mr. Buford.”
“Sir!” said Wilson. “Heated shot is dangerous. We’re as likely to set ourselves on fire!”
“Your concerns are noted, but I’ve made my decision. Get to it.”
Wilson glared at John as he walked out of the cabin. John flashed a smirk.
“Mr. Sullivan,” said Ryland. “Select the men you need for the shore raid, and someone you trust to lead them.”
“Captain.” John straightened, his arms clasped behind his back. “I intend to lead the raid.”
“Yes, so I heard. But you’re needed here.”
“Captain, this mission is too important. There’s no one else. It must be me.”
A tense silence descended. Ryland and John locked stares.
“Gentlemen,” said Ryland. “Get started on preparations. Mr. Sullivan and I need a word.”
The rest of the officers saluted and filed out of the room. The cabin doors closed behind them, leaving Ryland and John alone.
“Captain, I must go on this mission.” John leaned forward on the table. He wasn’t about to let Ryland stand in the way of his promise to Declan. “It’s too important to send someone else.”
“I understand your concerns, Mr. Sullivan, but I disagree. Select someone to lead in your stead.”
The sheer strangeness of their situation dawned. A fourth lieutenant and a Navy deserter on a stolen ship in an enemy harbor. They were a band of fugitives fighting for their lives. The finer points of Navy decorum were the least of their troubles. The shore battery had to be silenced. The lives of everyone John cared about were at stake.
“Ryland, this is no time for measuring our cocks. We have one chance to survive, and silencing those guns is the key. I got us the ship. I got us out of the fort. And I’m going to get us home.”
John half expected the acting captain to clap him in irons for mutiny.
Instead, Ryland sighed. Perhaps he too understood the lawlessness of their situation. “In a few hours, the sun will rise. The men aboard this ship will see dozens of sloops, ketches, and gunboats, all bent on our capture. They will see hundreds of enemies raising arms to enslave them. Clever plans, a better ship, more skilled sailors—none of these are how we win.”
John gritted his teeth, losing patience with Ryland. “What other advantages could possibly matter?”
“Sullivan, you’ve become a good officer. Despite your lack of years on a man of war, you know seamanship and you have potential as a leader. But that’s not why I made you first officer. Your achievements in battle have made you a hero. A symbol of what courage can achieve.”
A pit churned in John’s stomach. “Sir, if this is about my fight on that Barbary gunboat—I never asked for that ridiculous nickname, and I don’t encourage the men in its use.”
“It’s not ridiculous, Sullivan. It’s belief. And belief is how we win. I don’t need a first officer. I need Bloody Sully.”
“I don’t want to be Bloody Sully!” John was surprised to hear himself shout. Until that very moment, he had never realized how much he hated that nickname. How every time a sailor said it—or Melisande said it—he recoiled. Two words that didn’t call to mind great deeds, or hard-won accolades, or the laurels of glorious victory. “Bloody Sully” reminded him of the moment his sword went through a boy’s gut. The sound in the pirate youth’s voice when he begged for his brother’s life. Whatever John had been in that moment, it wasn’t a hero.
When Ryland finally spoke again, he spoke softly. Not as a captain, but as a friend. “Whatever your personal doubts, John, the men look to you for inspiration. They need you for this fight. They need you here. Can you honestly look me in the eye and say I’m wrong?”
John stared at the map. Wax dripped from the candlestick and added an uncharted island to the lake. “No. I can’t.”
Ryland nodded.
“I’ll select another leader for the mission.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sullivan. Let me know who you assign.”
“Yes, sir.” John turned to leave.
“One more thing.”
John turned around.
“When all this is done, I will stand with you at your court-martial. I’ll tell the captains at trial that, but for you, we would all be slaves. Or worse.”
“Thank you, sir.” As John stepped out of the cabin, he added, “but the day is young.”
###
“That’s it, Big Paw,” said Melisande. “Pry ’em all up.”
John found her and Seaman Kelham down on the crew deck amidships, where several details of sailors were tearing out the pirates’ bulkheads. The haphazard warren of slave cells or private rooms were an obstruction to the proper running of a Navy ship, and so the walls were being pulled down with crowbars. The powerfully-built Kelham was using a pickaxe to tear the bolted irons out of the floor, while Melisande stuffed canvas bags with the shackles and chain links once used for slaves.
Melisande added a full bag to a group of five others. “That’s it, Big Paw. Keep ’em coming.”
The young sailor dripped sweat from his broad forehead, but he worked without complaint. He hooked his pick under another iron plate and wrenched it loose.
“Seaman Dufort,” said John. “Making improvised grape shot, I see.”
“Why not?” Melisande stuffed another bag. “Riley said any spare scraps of metal should be used for munitions.”
“Firing shackles at slave keepers.” John gave a wry smile. “I can’t think of a better use. But you’ll need to leave this task to someone else. I have a mission for you.”
Melisande’s ears perked up. “Mission, eh? Pray tell.”
“I need five men—strong swimmers and fighters—to sneak ashore and spike the battery guns. I want you to select and lead a team.”
“Me?” Melisande batted her ice-blue eyes. “Lead the mission?”
“If you’re having more fun stuffing bags of shot…” John pretended to walk away.
“Hey, now, Sully.” Melisande grabbed his hand, turning him back toward her. “To Hell with stuffing shot. I’m your gir—erm, I’m your man!”
“That’s what I thought,” John said with a smirk. “Make no mistake, this is dangerous. You’ll be outnumbered, so you’ll have to go under cover of darkness. Move quickly and quietly. Your mission will be to silence the guns and escape to the ruins of Carthage before sunrise. We’ll pick you up on the Mediterranean shore once we fight our way out of the channel.”
“Don’t worry, Sully. Those land guns are as good as scrap.”
“I can help,” said the voice of Kaitlin. John looked aft and saw her coming down a ladder. She stepped over a pile of torn out planks and stood with him. “I know the ruins better than anyone, and you need a thief on this mission.”
Melisande and John spoke over each other.
“Good idea, Lil Red!”
“Out of the question!”
“Why?” asked Kaitlin.
“It’s far too dangerous,” said John.
“And it’ll be safer here? With cannonballs flying everywhere?”
“She has a point,” said Melisande.
John gave Melisande a disapproving frown. The disguised woman gave a sheepish grin and went back to stuffing bags of shot. He guided Kaitlin a few paces aft to a little nook amid bags of flour, where they had a little more privacy from the traffic of sailors. A lantern whined from its hook on a piling, swinging with the motion of the ship.
“Kait, the pirates won’t be aiming to sink the ship. You’ll be safest here, below the waterline, where I can protect you.”
&n
bsp; “I don’t need you to protect me,” Kaitlin said. “This is an important mission, and I can help. Melly needs me!”
“Naim is still out there. I promised Da I’d get you home, and I’m not taking any chances.”
“Haven’t I proven myself to you yet? I broke you out of that castle. I helped you trick Naim. What will it take for you to stop treating me like a child?”
John planted a fist on his hip. “Why do you want to go so badly? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Kaitlin looked as if she might answer for a moment, then she crossed her arms and looked away.
“Listen, Kait…” John shook his head. “The things you can do, what you did for me and the others—I am in awe. And I’m damn proud.”
Kaitlin looked at John in spite of herself. “You are?”
“Like you can’t believe. But you did your part. You got us out of that city. It was one thing when there was no other way, but now that we’re on the water, this is my fight, and you’ve got to trust me. This is no time to take a reckless chance with your life. Not after I’ve…” John found his voice choking up, and he paused to regain his composure. “Not after I’ve finally got you back. I can’t risk it. I just can’t. You understand, don’t you, Kait?”
She still wouldn’t look at him. “Aye.”
“Promise me you’ll stay below decks, where you’re safe, all right?”
“…Aye.”
“There’s a good lass.” John felt a wave of relief. “What’s say we head to the galley for something to eat, hmm?”
“That’s all right, Johnny.” Kaitlin vaulted over the stacks of flour. She vanished around a canvas partition before John could protest. “I’ll find my own way.”
###
Kaitlin was always good at finding hidden places. She sat in a hollow among the water casks on the orlop deck, a candlestick providing the only light. Even on the placid waters of the lake, her stomach was already turning queasy. The light flickered over Arab calligraphy, penned with the finesse of an artist. She read Naim’s message again:
To the thief calling herself the Red Hart,
There is a place in Carthage where, as your mother’s favorite storyteller has it, “A poor player struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.”
In this place, you will find your mother’s last possession: A journal bound in green vellum. Come reclaim Nora’s chronicle. Then we shall conclude our own.
Your humble servant,
V. Naim, Chronicler of Constantinople.
Something made a squeak beyond the candlelight. A rat wriggled down the coils of rope and onto Kaitlin’s lap. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she met the rodent’s round black eyes. Its pink nose sniffed the air. Kaitlin saw its belly was swollen and realized it would soon give birth to a litter of pups. Not wanting to deny a mother in her time of need, Kaitlin reached into her satchel and offered a crumb of biscuit.
“Here you are, Mama Rat. To keep strong for your babes. I had a lot of friends like you in Tunis. My only friends. Save for Buford, of course.”
The curious creature snatched the crumb in her forepaws. She devoured the morsel and scurried under the cables.
“Your babies are lucky to have a mam. Mine was taken from me. By a monster.” Kaitlin thought of how rats once terrified her, long ago on the Wandering Hart. But Nora had taught her they were only animals, like the squirrels or the birds or the ship’s tabby cat. Like all living creatures, they wanted only to survive. After years spent navigating the rooftops, sewers, and derelict alleys of Tunis—among God’s less “desirable” creatures—it was a lesson Kaitlin finally understood.
Like always, Naim’s trap was perfect. He knew the one bait Kaitlin could never resist. To go after Nora’s journal would be suicide.
“I miss my mam, Mama Rat. And my da. And I’m never getting either of them back. That journal is the last piece of them I have, and it might as well be at the bottom of the ocean.” A tear fell from Kaitlin’s eye and pattered on rope. Her hand balled into a fist, and the Chronicler’s note collapsed. She brushed away another tear. “No. My name is Kaitlin Hermia Sullivan. Apprentice to the legendary Aruna the Tigerfoot. Last journeyman of the Silver Hand Guild of Thieves. The master thief known as the Red Hart. And I’ll be damned if I let Naim steal what’s rightfully mine!”
Kaitlin climbed over the barrels, crawling on her belly to get under the deck beams. She made her way up to the crew deck, then to the open door of the powder magazine. As she hoped, Buford was inside, arranging the bags and barrels of munitions. He saw her in the side of his eye.
“Thought you might be skulking ’round the dark corners.” The black-bearded merchant opened a barrel of coal. “You never could stay in one place long. Where you off to?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Kaitlin slipped Naim’s note into her pocket. “We’re on a ship—there’s nowhere to go.”
“Hmm.” Buford spat a wad of tobacco juice, then picked up another cask. “Don’t go foolin’. You got that wild look in your eye. Like a bobcat runnin’ the night.”
To deny it would be pointless. Buford had been her most trusted contact for years. And in these last few months of despair, her only friend. He knew her too well.
Kaitlin leaned against the bulkhead, one leg crossed over the other. “I was trying to make up a story for why I needed supplies. But since you have me figured out, there’s no point in telling tales. I have to go to Carthage. Naim has something that belonged to my mother. I mean to take it back.”
“You going to tell your brother?”
“He forbids me to leave the ship. So no, I’m not.”
“Of all the Sultan’s assassins, I know the least about Varlick Naim. That means he’s the most dangerous. Your brother’s gotta know.”
“Buford, you can’t tell him! He’ll never let me leave if he gets wind. Or worse, he’ll follow me.”
Buford let out a grumbling sigh. “Not many men would come as far as he has for his kin. He’s got his reasons for keeping you aboard. If you leave, you may never come back. Hell of a thing to risk for some dusty book.”
“I’m not a scared little girl anymore, Buford. I know what I’m doing. Besides, I’m no good on a ship. I’ll just be in the way.”
“Hmm.”
“Before you left the River Falls, I don’t suppose you thought to bring a few thieving tools, did you?”
“Hmm.”
Kaitlin smiled.
Chapter 57
Near the Channel Shore Battery
On the edge of the Mediterranean Sea
Wednesday, September 14th, 1803
Day 5, Near Dawn
“What’s taking her so long?” hissed Melisande Dufort. A few blades of coastal grass tickled her nose. She shot an undeserved glare at Big Paw Kelham, who lay next to her. “Damn that girl.”
The big teenaged sailor craned his neck toward the top of the square watchtower, which rose from the embankment above their heads. The flaming braziers mounted on the crenelations lit his concentrating eyes. His study of the enemy fortification evidently yielded no answer, and he shrugged his beefy shoulders at Melisande.
She sighed. Swimming across the lake in moonless dark, pushing a bundle of supplies on a floating plank, she had been eager for a swift and bloody stealth attack. She had three Marines and Big Paw Kelham—a small but mighty assault party. The risk was high, but Melisande was confident in her plan and her team. To her chagrin, Kaitlin had caught up to them halfway through the swim, having followed them off the ship. Sully’s sister proved every bit as stubborn as him—insisting on sneaking into the battery first to sow a little sabotage. It was a good idea, and Melisande reluctantly agreed. But lying against the sandy berm for two hours—waiting—threatened to drive her mad. She sighed again.
“The lass bid us to wait here,” admonished Sergeant Anderson. The Marine was in his early twenties, with boyishly handsome features and a trim build. Like so many former Allegheny crew, Ryland
granted him a field promotion. “…So that’s just what we ought to do.”
“You sure about this, Dufort?” worried Private Poole. He was a South Carolinian in his late teens, with unruly black hair and a finger always exploring his nose. “You ask me, that little girl’s got a head full o’ bees.”
“Hey!” Melisande whispered as loud as she dared. She spat on a crab and sent it skittering away. If only they knew their leader was a girl. “Watch what you call Lil Red. She could steal the drawers off your arse if she liked. She’s the reason any of us got off that island—just wish she’d hurry things up, is all.”
“We ain’t out of this mess yet,” said Private Miller. He’d grown up in Charlestown alongside Poole. He had a lanky build but nevertheless could swim—a surprisingly lacking skill among sailors and Marines. “And I don’t like leaving our fate to Sullivan’s kid sister.”
“Stow it, Marines.” Sergeant Anderson brushed sand from his sodden coat—a vain effort. “Lieutenant Sullivan put Dufort in charge, so it’s Dufort’s call. Besides, better Bloody Sully and his sister over Bainbridge or Aubert.”
“Aye.” Poole pulled his finger from his nose and examined it by starlight. “And Bloody Sully’s got a head full o’ hornets.”
They all snickered under their breath, careful not to let the sentries hear.
Minutes passed like hours. The shore battery was little more than a few cannons mounted on the scrap of a Carthaginian wall. A teak stockade served as the other three walls of the outpost. The whole uneven mess sat on the flat isthmus between lake and sea, and it looked on the verge of collapse. Four 12-pounder guns aimed east to the Mediterranean, four west across the Lake of Tunis, and eight south across the canal. Melisande’s party hid beneath the steep sandbank at the base of the western wall, the lakeshore only forty yards behind them.
Dozens of gunboats and five pirate sloops crowded near the channel shore. The pirates were transferring a share of powder and shot from their vessels to the battery. Tents littered the beach, clustered around driftwood campfires. They drove a donkey up to the southern gate, the poor animal braying under the strain of hauling tonnage over sand. Men not moving supplies smoked from long pipes, their colorful silks and turbans bright in the firelight. The pungent aroma of their coffee and smoke blew on the breeze.
Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat Page 47