The bile churned in Dominique’s stomach, but she held it down. Ethan listened and continued to ready his sick berth on the forward crew deck. Even with his leg stitched and bandaged, he worked diligently. It had taken all night for him to hang a dozen sick hammocks—which looked to Dominique like canvas coffins. He had swabbed the decks clean of dirt and animal filth left by the pirates. Then he hung more lanterns and stocked supplies of blankets, linen, and whatever herbs or medicine he could scrounge.
“…Speculum, trephine, bone saw.” Dominique looked hopefully at the acting ship’s surgeon.
Ethan inspected a vial of laudanum. “And the curved twelve-inch instrument?”
“Oh!” Dominique looked down at a blade shaped like a hand-held sickle. She had to swallow back the bile in her throat. “It’s the…erm, amputation knife.”
“Good,” smiled Ethan. When he looked over at her, his thick brows drew together. “Are you sure you’re up to this? You look a little pale. I’m sure there are other ways you could…”
“No!” Dominique stood up, her height inches below the massive oak beams crossing overhead. “I want to help. There’s no place for a woman above decks, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to hide in a cabin while the rest of you fight for my freedom.”
Ethan sighed and closed his medicine chest. He grimaced with every step of his gunshot leg as he limped over to the surgical table. He looked at her seriously, his eyes ruddy-brown in the lamplight. “That’s a sentiment I can certainly understand. But Dominique, this is no time for rash heroics. In a few hours, this berth is going to be filled with screaming, wounded men, with battle raging all about us. I need someone with a cool head. A swooning nurse could cost lives.”
“I have never swooned!” Dominique folded her arms. “I have no intention of doing so today.”
“Dominique, there’s no shame in admitting…”
“Ethan—I can do this.”
Ethan considered for a moment. At last, he nodded. “All right, then. That’s enough practice for now. Head up to the galley and get something to eat—I recommend light fare.”
“Okay, good idea.” Dominique paused when she got to the canvas door. “And Ethan…”
The young Philadelphia freeman looked up from his row of tools.
“Thank you.”
Chapter 59
Near the Baths of Antoninus
Ruins of Ancient Carthage
Wednesday, September 14th, 1803
Day 5, Morning
Kaitlin Sullivan peeked around the brick column. Concrete benches descended from her feet to the stage of an ancient amphitheater. Hardy desert scrub grew through the cracks in the stone. Behind her, the crumbling Baths of Antoninus threw long shadows in the morning sun. Cannonfire rumbled from the direction of the lake like an approaching storm. Kaitlin licked her lips as she stared at her prize: A heavy wooden chest, banded in steel, at the center of the stage.
But her heart plunged at what she found beside the chest. A boy of seven was chained at the ankle to a stake, which was hammered into the dais. Kaitlin recognized him from a few nights ago when she and her brother came upon a family of Berbers. His family had always been friendly to the Silver Hand, never reporting them to the bey’s men. Many Berbers had no love of Tunisians, who were only the most recent civilization to displace them from their lands. The boy huddled with his head in his knees, whimpering.
It was an obvious trap. Somewhere in these ruins, Naim was waiting and watching. Kaitlin was probably fast enough to pick a single lock before Naim could break cover and catch her. But to free the boy and unlock the chest would take too long. Kaitlin stared ruefully at the box, far too heavy and large for what it held: an old saltwater-stained journal. Worthless to any other thief, but to Kaitlin, the most priceless treasure on Earth.
Naim’s message was clear. Are Nora’s memoirs worth a boy’s life?
Kaitlin took a deep breath. She closed her eyes, feeling the sun on her face. The Red Hart had one last job in Tunis. “Wish me luck, Rune.”
She plucked the new lock picks from her belt—supplied by Buford—and sprinted down the crescent benches. The boy looked up in alarm.
He recognized her, his eyes filling with hope. “Help me! Please! Set me free, Silver Hand!”
Kaitlin landed on the dais and dropped to her knees in front of the boy. “Do not fear.” Her lockpicks went to work on his manacle. She felt her ears tingle as she listened for signs of Naim. But there was only the rumbling of cannon fire on the lake.
“I want my mother,” sobbed the boy.
“What is your name?” Kaitlin smiled at him, her practiced hands still working the lock.
“Amalu.”
“I am Kaitlin. Soon I will have you free, Amalu, and then you must run home as fast as your legs will carry you. Can you do that for me?”
The boy nodded and rubbed a fist against his tear-stained cheeks.
Kaitlin smiled. She said in her Irish-accented English, “There’s a brave lad!”
As the last tumbler clicked into place, Kaitlin’s hand slipped, and the iron filing sliced her below the thumb.
“Feck!” Kaitlin cursed. Bright ruby drops pattered on the shackle as it clicked open. “Got it!”
Amalu threw aside the chain and took off at a run. Kaitlin watched him disappear into the ruins.
“You’re welcome,” she said wryly. She tore off a piece of her cloak, tied it around her stinging hand, and hurried to pick the padlock on the chest.
Every second passed like the rise and fall of a pendulum in a grandfather clock. Kaitlin felt every beat of her heart, heard every buzz of an insect, saw every drop of blood falling from her bandage. Time circled overhead like a vulture. The last tumbler clicked, and the lock came loose. Kaitlin loved that feeling—almost as much as stolen coins flowing through her fingers. She threw open the lid. There it was—a green journal embossed with the fairy Ariel sitting in a tree. Tears welled behind Kaitlin’s eyes.
She stuffed the book into her satchel and jumped to her feet. Her blood ran cold at the sound of a voice behind her.
“Always I hope my quarry will surprise me, and always I am disappointed.”
Kaitlin slowly turned around. Varlick Naim stood before the lowest row of benches, the silver filigree of his crossbow blinding bright and aimed at Kaitlin. Six bowstrings in a box-shaped magazine were loaded with bolts. Naim was dressed more like a warrior on a mission, with trousers and a shorter kaftan, dark green in shadow, shimmering emerald in the light. Kaitlin pulled a valari from her belt and met the yellow-green eyes of the Chronicler of Constantinople.
“I gave you a chance to defy your nature,” Naim continued. “You had only to be selfish this once. Leave the boy and take the journal, and I never would have caught you.”
Kaitlin’s heart hammered in her chest as she faced her mother’s murderer.
“No matter how unique one may consider their own soul…” Naim shook his head. “No matter how particularly special we believe ourselves, in the end, there is little variety in the human heart. None of us can resist the pull of old habits.”
“You ought to know!” Kaitlin shouted, her voice trembling. “Hurting people and calling it clever is your oldest habit.”
“You’re more right than you know, girl. Now, put down the child’s toy.”
“I’m not afraid of you!” The words surprised even Kaitlin. She circled around the dais. Naim’s aim followed her. “This journal belongs to my brother and me. I won’t let you take it, and I won’t let you hurt Johnny or me ever again.”
Naim gave a wry smile. “Few ever fear me before the end. I consider it a point of professional pride. But of all my enemies, Red Hart, you have earned your courage more than any other. For that, you have my respect. Please, Kaitlin. Come quietly.” The crossbow clicked as Naim adjusted his aim. “I have no wish to cripple you.”
“Then don’t. Give up this mad hatred for my brother…and just…just go home!”
“There is
no home waiting for either of us.” A shadow fell over Naim’s eyes. “Drop the weapon. I won’t say it again.”
The valari wobbled in Kaitlin’s hand. Her bluff had been called. She would never hit Naim before he put a bolt through her leg. Kaitlin had seen Naim’s deadly accuracy first hand—when he killed Rune a year ago. She couldn’t stall the Chronicler any longer.
Screeeee!
A rocket flew down from an arch with an ear-splitting scream. Kaitlin dove out of the way as the projectile spiraled into the amphitheater. A flash blurred Kaitlin’s eyes. A detonation buffeted her ears. White smoke filled the amphitheater. Kaitlin’s plan had worked—the rocket she planted with a slow-burning fuse fired not a moment too soon. Now she had to escape a noxious cloud.
Kaitlin stumbled to her feet, coughing on smoke. Her eyes watered as she moved through the haze. She found her way to the top of the benches and burst into the bright Tunisian sun. When she reached the steps leading up to the Baths of Antoninus, she looked for signs of pursuit. Nothing but a white fog filling the amphitheater.
Then she heard coughing. Varlick Naim emerged from the smoke like a malevolent spirit. He gasped for fresh air, tears running down his face. His eyes locked on her. For a single heartbeat, the thief and the assassin didn’t move. Then Naim charged.
Kaitlin remembered her mother’s last words to her.
“Now fly, Rabbit!”
Kaitlin ran for all she was worth.
Chapter 60
The Independence
Lake of Tunis
Wednesday, September 14th, 1803
Day 5, Morning
Another shot screamed toward the Independence. John Sullivan and the crew at the forecastle ducked below the rails. The ball whistled past the foremast. A near miss. Over the rail, John saw the single mast and triangular sail of a Tunisian gunboat veering away. Like the other dozen boats taking potshots at the American brig, it fired its only long gun and fled.
“Permission to return fire, sir,” cried Bosun Meadows, echoing the sentiment of the forward gun crews.
John wanted nothing more than to say “yes.” But Ryland’s orders were clear. “Permission denied. Hold fire.” John looked sternly at all the men on the forecastle. “They want us to waste our shots. Let the puppies nip at our heels. It’s the big dog we want, right boys?”
“Aye!” cried several of the gunners.
John turned a furtive glance toward Ryland. The acting captain stood near the ship’s wheel, directing the guns abaft of the foremast. The number of enemy vessels circling the Independence had doubled over the last hour. Triangular sails dotted the lake, their images wavering in the heat of the day. Two ketches sailed through the clouds of dust blowing off the ruined Lake Fort. Most of the Tunisian fleet massed at the mouth of the channel, blocking any escape to sea.
The largest of the enemy ships broke away from the channel. It was twenty feet shorter than Independence, but with a steeply raised aftercastle and forecastle. A figurehead of a spear pointed under is long bowsprit. The ship sailed almost against the wind, its large lateen sails luffing as it approached the American snow brig. By contrast, Independence sailed with the wind, giving her ample advantage to maneuver.
“He’s given up the weather gauge,” said Meadows. “He’s either mad or a poor sailor.”
“I’ll take either, Mr. Meadows,” said Ryland as he strode up to the bow. “Let’s see what the Tunisians are all in a bother about, hmm?” He smiled and gave the old sailor a pat on the back.
As the large enemy ship closed in, the other pirates ceased fire. It was about forty yards away when its captain yelled across the water from his forecastle, “American dogs! I am Hamit, re’is of the Blooded Spear. I give you this one chance to surrender. Close your gunports. Furl your sails. Throw down your arms. Return the flagship of Tunis, stolen in your cowardly attack, and receive mercy from wise and generous Hammuda Bey. Your country will be offered a chance to purchase your ransom. Submit…or receive my sword.”
John boiled with fury. Like every other man aboard, John looked at the acting captain, eager to hear his answer.
Ryland looked at his feet a moment. Then the young lieutenant cocked an eyebrow and called back, “Truly, that’s a mighty fine offer. All the same, I’d be a poor New Yorker if I didn’t haggle. Would you consider a counter offer?”
“Speak your terms,” Hamit replied.
Ryland licked his lips. “We can’t return the ship just now, but how about we give Prince Hammuda a ride on our bowsprit before we leave?”
The Independence crew snickered.
“I hear he’s impressed by its size.”
Laughter roared across the deck now. A few sailors shouted jeers. One man jumped down on the prow, turned and bent over, and dropped his trousers. There were a variety of other lewd gestures after that.
Hamit’s black look of rage was visible forty yards away. His crew shouted their own volley of epithets. “Your insults will not better your fate, infidels. I know the Wolf of Tunis cannot withstand the assault of our fleet and shore guns. You are hopelessly outnumbered. Surrender now, or your men will be worked to death in the mines. Your women and ship’s boys will be whores to the highest bidder. And you, captain, will hang from the yardarm. Your crew will watch my blade pull out your entrails.”
Had John been in command, he’d have ordered the attack then and there. This man had murdered his brother, and now he threatened all who John held dear. John longed to cut Hamit’s throat. Perhaps it was better he wasn’t in command. It would take cooler heads than his to win this battle. So he bit back his rage.
Ryland remained as cheeky as ever. “Perhaps you haven’t heard, Hamit Re’is, but this ship has a new name. Independence.”
The entire crew raised a cheer at that, John loudest of all.
“Our country is young and unfamiliar to you, I imagine,” Ryland went on. “So I don’t expect you know what that word truly means. Suffice to say, it carried us to victory against far more determined foes. Come for our lives and our freedom if you dare. But I promise we shall sell them dearly!”
Another loud cheer.
“You think yourself a clever man,” sneered Hamit.
“More clever after a tot of rum,” Ryland quipped, prompting another round of snickers.
“I enjoy cutting out the tongues of clever men. You will be my ship’s tongueless fool.” It was the pirates’ turn to laugh and jeer. “This is your last chance: Surrender.”
“Might I have some time to confer with my officers? An hour perhaps.”
“Your time is up, Christian dog! How do you answer?”
Ryland hesitated, showing the first signs of fear. As each agonizing second passed, the gunboats crept closer, predators moving in to pick clean their kill. John had a moment of doubt when he wondered if Ryland might actually offer surrender. He couldn’t hope to save Dominique, Kaitlin, and the others without the Independence and her crew.
“Erm…” Ryland stammered. “Very well, Re’is…you leave me no choice…that is to say—”
A trail of smoke streaked into the sky over the isthmus. A rocket exploded into a shower of red sparks.
A confident grin spread across Ryland’s face, his feigned cowardice abandoned. The pirates looked toward the detonation in surprise. Ryland called across the water, “Thank for your kind offer of mercy, Captain. But if it’s all the same to you…” Ryland turned back toward the crew and echoed the now famous words of Commodore Edward Preble. “…Blow your matches, boys!”
The crew of the Independence cheered and exploded into action. Gunshots and angry shouts came from the deck of the Blooded Spear.
Bosun Meadows blew his whistle high, then low. “Stand to quarters! Stand to quarters!”
Ryland shouted, “Sail by the wind, dead ahead!”
Orders echoed across the rigging. The yardarms groaned as men hauled on ropes, steering them to fill with wind. Any sailors still wearing shirts stripped them off to avoid bullets or shrapnel
adding cloth to a wound. The mainsail billowed with the tailwind, and Independence lurched forward.
“Mr. Sullivan, take command of the helm. I want to rake Hamit’s bow…” Ryland trailed off. On the decks of the Blooded Spear, two banks of oars rose into the air. In choreographed unison, they lowered down into the lake. Somewhere near the Spear’s stern, a drummer tapped an ominous beat. The oars ignored the headwind and drove the enemy ship straight toward its prey.
“Hamit has oars,” said John with a wry smirk. “I guess he had the weather gauge after all.”
Ryland clucked his tongue. “Dirty card, that.”
“They mean to board. A course south by southeast would take us out of range.”
“No.” Ryland turned a shout aft. “Helm, hold your course. Double shot the port guns.”
Buford, now the ship’s gunner, looked as calm as if he were still tending bar at the River Falls. He passed the order along the spar deck and to the gun deck below—all cannon were to load with a double charge of powder and two round shots.
“A profligate use of ammunition,” said Quartermaster Wilson. “We should run!”
Several men at the guns directed worried looks at Ryland. Only Buford seemed unconcerned as he chewed the end of a powder cartridge. The Blooded Spear was less than thirty yards ahead now.
Ryland didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the xebec rowing straight at them, the spear at its prow like a couched lance. “Stand by port guns.”
John carried out Ryland’s order. “Port gun crews, run out!”
The order carried down the deck. The gun carriages trundled forward as their crews hauled on ropes.
“Sight your targets, boys,” Buford growled. “Aim to hit the most meat.”
“Brace up the gaff sail,” ordered Ryland.
Wilson relayed the order down the deck. The Blooded Spear closed to fifteen yards, the oars plowing through the water.
Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat Page 49