“Please, Mr. Auldon.” Ryland didn’t resist as his men helped him to his feet “Don’t let him be alone. He shouldn’t be alone.”
“We’ll care for Mr. Sawyer, Captain. I promise.”
John sheathed his sword, drawing Ethan’s attention. The two men met each other’s gaze for a moment. Then Ethan and another sailor picked up Sawyer’s body and followed the captain below. John looked himself up and down and realized what Ethan had seen. Spots and chunks of Re’is Hamit had landed on John like a cloud burst. At the end of another battle, he was covered in blood.
“Lieutenant Sullivan,” said Midshipman Merrick. John’s older peer from the USS Philadelphia stepped onto the quarterdeck. He seemed different—not nearly as skittish as John remembered. Like every other man aboard, he had faced his own death. No man was the same after that. “What are your orders?”
“Orders?” replied John.
“You command the deck, sir.”
“Ah, right.” It was strange but true. Deserting midshipman or not, with Ryland indisposed and John the acting first lieutenant, command fell to him. Only the most extreme circumstances could make such a thing possible. For some reason, his heart was pounding harder than ever.
Looking around the channel, John saw no signs of ketches, sloops, or gunboats pursuing. To port, the guns of the shore battery were as silent as they’d ever been. To starboard, the Blooded Spear yawed in a circle. Ahead, the wide, crystal clear water of the Mediterranean filled the horizon.
John stepped up behind the helm, where Bosun Meadows was holding the wheel. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Mr. Merrick, clear the decks of debris. Ready the dead for burial.”
“What of the pirates, sir?”
For a moment, John considered giving the order to dump the enemy corpses over the side. Let them float, Bloody Sully whispered in his mind. Feed them to the sharks. But then John thought of Kaitlin. Her kindness. Her mercy. He thought of Ethan. A just man, despite the daily injustice he faced. He thought of Ethan’s years of advice, so often ignored.
“Yes, Mr. Merrick. Including the pirates. Captain Ryland knows some of their customs—see if he can provide us Moslem prayers for their last rites.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Merrick, snapping a salute and trotting forward.
“Course, sir?” asked Meadows.
“Steady as she goes, Bosun,” John answered. “Take her to sea.”
Chapter 67
The Island of Red Mortar Redoubt
Off the Coast of Tunis
Wednesday, September 14th, 1803
Day 5, Late Afternoon
Kaitlin stepped onto the white sand bar where it all started. The broken Roman watchtower rose up from the beach ahead of her. It was constructed of red mortar at the base, sandstone at the middle, and granite at the top. Crumbling stairs wound around the building from the sand to a lone doorway. A massive sycamore tree grew like a potted plant out of the broken roof, spreading its canopy of leaves over the small spit of sand. The roots snaked through cracks and traced down walls like ivy vines. The cliffs loomed behind the tower and ran the circumference of the island. Kaitlin shuddered at the thought of what awaited on the mesa above—the ruins of the Silver Hand Guild of Thieves.
There was a tug at Kaitlin’s bound hands.
“Come, Red Hart.” Naim left her legs unbound so she could walk. He led her about by a leash of rope. “Your brother will be along soon.”
Kaitlin’s captor pulled her toward the tower. She looked back at the cutter, beached in the surf. Red Mortar Redoubt had been her home when she was part of the Silver Hand. A tiny island surrounded by dangerous reefs, infested with waldrapps, and said to be haunted. The Silver Hand managed to build an oasis in this secluded place, where Barbary Pirates feared to go. Their manor on the mesa had been her home—until a year ago when Varlick Naim burned it to the ground. The night he killed Nora. And Rune. As she followed Naim up the steps, she fought back tears. This was a place she never wanted to see again.
The interior of the tower was the same ruin it had always been. The center was a mound of earth, laced with the ancient roots of the tree, and encircled by the ascending stairs. Branches occasionally stretched across their path, with little colonies of Tunisian wasps nesting in the knots. The place had the fragrant scent of soil, roots, and blossoms. Kaitlin had once loved this place.
At the top of the stairs, they emerged onto a wooden platform encircling the tree trunk. There was an iron sconce beside a stone doorway, and Naim pulled it like a lever. Heavy chains clattered below their feet. The pulleys hidden on the far wall dropped a massive counterweight of stone into the sea. Hidden wheels ground noisily as a bridge extended from the tower to a crevice in the cliff. Naim started across the catwalk, tugging Kaitlin along.
“I read Rahele’s letter,” she said.
At the mention of his wife’s name, Naim stopped midway across. He turned narrowed eyes on Kaitlin.
“It was tucked in your journal. It isn’t true what you said—that you could never go back. Rahele begged you to return—if only you would give up being the Chronicler. Go back into retirement. Become a husband and a father again, and let Ilyas rest. She said, ‘Anta kol ma aordioh.’” In Arabic it meant, All I ask is you.
The surf crashed and surged against the cliffs beneath the bridge. In the space between the sandbar and the cliff face, the currents were deadly—capable of dragging someone under or dashing them against the rocks. The violent wrath of the sea and the caws of the circling birds were the only sounds.
A distant look came into Naim’s eye. A serene look, as if memories were playing before his sight. “Rahele and Touran would have liked you. They would be touched by your pleas for my soul. They would be appalled by what I’m doing to you.”
“That’s because they love you. They want to help you heal. It isn’t too late, Varlick. That boy you say you killed—I don’t believe he’s dead. He’s still there. Buried within you. That’s why Rahele sent the stallion. You don’t need to grieve for Ilyas alone.”
“I grieve because of what your brother stole. I did choose to be a father. But by then, it was already too late.”
“This isn’t about Ilyas. You forget, I’ve read your chronicles. I know the things you’ve done and how they torment you. This isn’t the man you wanted to be. Let Rahele and Touran help. I would have done anything for my da, and I know Touran would too.”
A wave smashed against the cliffs, launching a geyser of spray over the bridge.
“I used to walk in my olive orchards,” said Naim. “Sometimes, when I wasn’t traveling for the sultan’s work, I would go out at night. While my wife and children were asleep. To admire my land. Check the trees for blight. Reflect on the day. For a time, home and family brought me peace. I thought one day I would lay down my burdens, and my great work would be worth all the sacrifice.”
The shadow of a waldrapp passed between chronicler and thief.
“But those walks kept getting longer,” said Naim. “The sun would set, and I would walk. The moon would rise, and still, I would walk. I would pass the same tree for the fourth time. My feet would be sore. My eyes would barely stay open. And still, I would walk. One such night, I walked into my house at dawn, my feet leaving bloody prints, my clothes covered in dirt. I sat on the edge of my bed, and Rahele asked me, ‘what thoughts, husband, keep you walking the fields all night?’”
Kaitlin felt her pulse rising. A terrible chill running down her spine. Something primal in her sounded the alarm. In spite of her fear, she asked, “what was your answer?”
“There were no thoughts. Only the faces of every person I killed.”
A tear ran down Kaitlin’s cheek.
“I once believed, as you believe, that my family could be my redemption. But you see, Red Hart, there is nothing left to redeem.” Naim turned back toward the path. He tugged on the rope, pulling Kaitlin forward a step.
A terrible weight sank onto Kaitlin’s shoulders. She wanted
so desperately to reach this man. To find a better way. But she was certain now—Varlick Naim would never stop. She knew what she had to do.
As if sensing something wrong, Naim looked back at Kaitlin. His eyes darted from her to the hundred-foot drop and back again. Alarm flashed across his face. “No!”
Kaitlin leaped off the edge. With lightning reflexes, Naim dove onto the catwalk, gripping the edge with all his might and tightening his hold on the rope. Kaitlin fell, feet pointed toward the surf. She hit the end of the rope with a painful jerk, dangling by her bound wrists over the boiling waves.
“Yeaghhh!” cried Naim as he caught her weight with his free hand.
To Kaitlin’s amazement, as she swung at the end of the six-foot line, Naim managed to hold firm. She kicked her legs, hoping her movement might dislodge him. She needed him to fall with her. Pulling them both to a watery grave was the only way to save John.
Naim growled as he held her weight, his long legs kicking above her. “Aaaagh!” he roared as he pulled himself higher onto the platform. With strength he shouldn’t have possessed, he hauled her up several feet with one hand. Bracing the rope against the edge and using his body as a counterweight, he sat on his haunches. He pulled, hand over hand, slowly dragging Kaitlin back up. When she was close to the top, she fought and kicked, but it was no use. With his face beet red and sweating, Naim lifted her up by the wrists.
He dragged her across the bridge and onto the stone path of the mesa. It was a narrow trail nestled between ridges of stone. The red walls of the Silver Hand manor were visible beyond. Naim slammed Kaitlin against the rock face, still breathing hard from his Herculean effort. His yellow-green eyes were on fire with rage.
He said, “You don’t want to hate me, girl? Not for the death of your mother? Not for shooting that boy you loved? Not for making your father immolate himself in a tower of flames?” Naim’s voice thundered across the mesa.
Terror took over, and tears flooded Kaitlin’s face. At that moment, in the cruel grip of this monster, thoughts of Naim’s redemption were very far away.
“Then hate me for this,” seethed Naim. “I’m going to kill your brother. I’m going to cast you into a pit of despair you cannot imagine. You will regret every ounce of pity you spared for your enemy. And I promise you, my dear Red Hart, my next walk through the olive orchards will take much longer than a single night.”
Naim dropped Kaitlin, and she slid down the rock face. She landed on hands and knees, sobbing uncontrollably. There was a tug on the rope, and again, she was on her feet.
The Chronicler led the Red Hart through the gates of the manor.
Chapter 68
The Independence
The Mediterranean Sea
Wednesday, September 14th, 1803
Day 5, Late Afternoon
The breeze tousled Eric Long’s ebony waves of hair. The boy’s face was pale, his cheeks sunken, his lips blue. He lay with his fallen shipmates. Nineteen sailors and Marines lying along the port side of Independence, awaiting last rites and a burial at sea. Long was the only one waiting to have his canvas burial shroud fully closed. John Sullivan held up the hooked stitching needle. It was a tradition for sailors to put the final stitch through the nose of the deceased, to ensure they weren’t still alive. For some reason, John couldn’t bring himself to cover Long’s face.
The bow pitched on a rolling wave. The jib sails puffed out on the bowsprit. They were on the Mediterranean Sea, at last, sailing parallel to the Carthaginian shore. The deck bustled with Allegheny survivors, Wandering Hart sailors, and escaped Barbary slaves. The crew repaired torn rigging, raised new sails, and holystoned blood from the deck. There were no pursuers on the horizon. John should have felt relief, but after the battle, he’d found a note from Kaitlin explaining that she joined Melisande’s mission. Until Independence picked them up from Carthage, he wouldn’t be able to rest. None of those thoughts made it easier for John to say goodbye to Eric Long.
As John stared at the bloody needle, he knew a piece of him would live in this day forever.
“Might I do that for you, Lieutenant?” said Midshipman Merrick. The thin twenty-four-year-old approached with hands clasped behind his back, his stockings typically ill-fitted and wrinkled.
“No…I can do it,” said John. “And please, Merrick, it’s just Sullivan to you.”
“If it’s all the same to you, Lieutenant, I shall always consider you much more than that.” Merrick knelt down beside John. “Your bravery got us off that island—saw us through that battle.”
John looked at Long, the collar of his borrowed officer’s coat too big for his skinny neck. “Not all of us.”
“…No.”
The two men exchanged a quiet look. John closed Long’s burial shroud. He pushed the needle through the boy’s nose and sewed the canvas closed.
“Ahoy!” shouted the lookout in the crosstrees. “Boat! Fine on the port bow!”
John sprang to his feet. In an instant, he was leaning over the bulwarks. There, a few miles off the bow, halfway between the Independence and the North African shore, a small rowboat bobbed on a swell. His brows creased—something was wrong. Even without his spyglass, John could see there were no oarsmen. No one manning the tiller. The plan had been for Melisande’s party—and Kaitlin—to rendezvous near the shores of Carthage. And they were supposed to be in a cutter, not a rowboat.
With Ryland below in the sick berth, John had command of the deck, which suited him fine. “Helm! Make your course north-by-northwest-a-quarter-west.”
“Coming to north-by-northwest-a-quarter-west,” repeated the helmsman as he sent the wheel spokes spinning.
“Meadows, rig a tackle. Pass the word for the surgeon. Look alive now!”
“Aye, sir,” said Meadows with a salute. “You lads, with me.”
The crew burst into action. Twenty minutes later, John could barely keep his legs still as he leaned out over the gangway, watching the small boat drift alongside the Independence hull. The crew was already securing cables to the bow and the stern. Two teams of sailors hauled to bring the vessel aboard. John’s heart plunged when he saw inside.
Five bodies were stuffed among the thwarts, arms and legs strewn over each other. They were the corpses of the Marines, Anderson, Poole, and Miller, and the sailor, Kelham. In the middle of them, soaking in six inches of cloudy red seawater, lay Melisande Dufort. Wisps of her short black hair were stuck to a gash in her cheek. Purple bruises swelled around her eyes. Her torn sailor’s shirt was soaked with blood at the shoulder.
John turned to the midshipman at his right. “Merrick! Get Mr. Dufort aboard.”
“Aye, sir!” Merrick said with a salute.
Melisande was babbling deliriously as they carried her down to the crew deck. Ethan redirected them to the officer’s wardroom. In order to treat Melly without betraying her secret, he claimed the surgery was too crowded. In the windowless officers’ cabin, piled with empty barrels and pirate junk, they lay her on a table. Dominique followed them in. Ethan lit a lantern and ushered the other sailors out. John closed the door. It was only family in the room, now.
“Melly?” Dominique bent over the table, eyes full of panic. “Melly!”
In addition to the blood soaking half of her shirt, Melisande was sweating and shaking.
“Make some room here.” Ethan muscled John aside. He threw open his leather roll of surgical tools, the motion of the ship sending a few instruments clattering across the table.
“Melly!” Dominique patted her sister. “Can you hear me? Melly?”
Melisande’s eyes opened lazily as if she were shaking off a deep sleep. “Dom…I drank seawater. I was so thirsty. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right,” smiled Dominique. She uncapped a canteen and held it to her sister’s lips. “We’re going to take care of you, all right? Drink, now.”
After a few spluttering sips, Melisande’s eyes opened wide. She tried to get up. “Where’s Sully?!”
“Easy, Melly,” said Ethan. “He’s right here. Now let me stitch this wound.”
Dominique’s eyes flashed up to John, who stood across the table. They shared the same worried look.
“I’m here, Melly,” said John, leaning over her.
“Have to tell you.” Melisande grabbed John’s arm. “You need to know.”
“Need to know what? Melisande, what happened? Where’s Katie?”
“Hold her still.” Ethan brought his stitching needle close to the wound.
Despite Melisande’s obvious pain, she propped up on an elbow. She half shouted, her eyes watery with tears. “No! I have to tell Sully…”
John’s heart began to race. He’d never seen Melisande in such a desperate state. “I’m listening, Melly.”
“Naim. He set a trap for Kaitlin in the ruins. We tried to get her out, but he killed the Marines. He killed Kelham.” A tear slipped down Melisande’s cheek, then another. “He took her, Sully. He took her, and he left me alive to bring you his message. I’m sorry. I couldn’t protect her. I’m so sorry, Sully.”
“Don’t worry about that now, Melly. But I need to know: what’s the message?”
“He said he’s taken her to the island where this all began. Something about the place where you learned his true name. Where your family last knew joy. He waits for you to face him, in the ruins.”
“Ruins? Of the Lake Fort?” Dominique said. “Is he trying to lure us back to the city?”
“No.” John said. “He means the Lair of the Silver Hand—Red Mortar Redoubt. Melly, what else did he say?”
“He said…” Melisande winced as her shoulder seized up. “He said four days ago, you issued him a challenge, and he accepts. Face him as a wolf…or she dies as a sheep.”
“Face him as a wolf…?” Dominique shook her head. “What the Hell does that mean?”
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