Voyage of Slaves

19

CAPE PASSERO OFF THE SOUTHERN TIP OF THE SICILIAN COAST.

THE MAN SHOOK A SMALL BOX OF corn grains, watching the pigeons circling overhead. Whistling softly to the birds, he spread a few grains on the sill of the loft. One by one they began landing, pecking at the corn before entering through the light wire grill.

He whistled and clucked patiently, biding his time until his champion homing bird, a fine, big, bronze-feathered pigeon, came to perch on the sill. Immediately it had entered the loft, the man went inside and retrieved it. He stroked its head gently against his cheeks, making soft, soothing clucks as he removed a tiny cylinder which was attached to its leg.

Having read the contents of the little scroll from the cylinder, he left the loft. Mounting a donkey, which was tethered outside, he set off for the coast, urging the beast to a trot with his bare heels.

Padre Marlanese read the letter three times, slowly, following the lines with a dirty fingernail and mouthing each word.

The pigeon man raised his brows. “Well, Padre, is good information worth its price?”

The fat little wrecker and coast robber rummaged in his voluminous waist wallet. He drew out four coins. “Three silver or one gold, my friend?”

The man did not hesitate. “One gold. Half your silver is tin, gold is always best.”

Marlanese parted reluctantly with the worn golden coin. “You are lucky I am not a man who is easily insulted.”

The pigeon owner took the gold and left immediately.

Padre Marlanese, the False Priest, lived on his boat, a long, flat-bottomed skiff. He commanded six such craft. Like a small gang of sharks, they preyed upon anything that moved through the waters from Passero up the Sicilian coastline to the Strait of Messina, and the Italian mainland on the other side above Taormina. Smaller craft he would attack; the larger ships, the padre could lure onto the rocks with his considerable skills as a wrecker.

Wheezing laboriously, he heaved himself from a battered armchair, which was nailed to the deck inside a little shack containing the tiller. His second in command, Bulgaro, a sombre-faced villain with a set of whalebone teeth which had once belonged to a Dutch merchant, smiled eagerly as his chief clambered ashore. Marlanese was clad in stained and greasy clerical garb, with a wide-brimmed hat. He resembled a fat, black beetle as he waddled along the strand.

Bulgaro joined him. “Is the news good, Padre?”

The little wrecker smirked, holding out the message. “Here, you long-faced heathen, read for yourself.”

Bulgaro’s countenance returned to its usual mournful look. “You know I can’t read words, what does it say?”

The False Padre chuckled. “Excellent news, for those who know how to deal with it. It comes from my cousin Ghigno. His master, Misurata, wants us to stop a ship which should be coming our way. He wants a fair-haired boy who sails with her, the rest is plunder for us. Good, eh?”

Bulgaro clacked his teeth, which were a few sizes too large. “A fair-haired boy, does he want him dead or alive?”

Marlanese shrugged. “Either way will do, what do you care? This ship is a swift vessel called White Ram. It was heading away from Malta, on a course which my cousin Ghigno thinks should take it right by here. If it follows the trade route, it will coast up past Siracusa and Catania, then head off to Melito at the toe of Italy. But it is my guess that the White Ram will never get that far.”

Bulgaro cackled. “We’ll wreck it on the rocks!”

The False Padre looked at Bulgaro scornfully. “Donkey! It is too fine a prize to wreck, we’ll take the vessel unharmed. I’ll make it my own.”

Bulgaro removed his teeth and began carving at them with his dagger. “What d’you suggest we do, Padre?”

Marlanese shot him a disgusted glance. “I suggest you put those things back in your mouth, before your chin beats your nose black and blue. We’ll lie in wait for the ship, myself and three boats off the coast at Siracusa, you and three other boats offshore. That way we’ll trap her from both sides at night, and take out her crew silently with blades and strangling nooses, watch and deck crew first. It will be over quickly.”

Bulgaro clacked his whalebone teeth together. “Aye, Padre, like that Slavian trader two years ago. They were dead before they had a chance to wake up.”

Marlanese eyed his companion sourly. “As long as you can keep those teeth from clacking. If they heard them they’d think they were being attacked by a band of Spanish dancers with castanets!”

Bulgaro muttered indignantly, “I can keep them quiet when I want to!”

The False Padre ignored him, continuing with his plan. “It should go smoothly, providing we’re not seen. I’ll come in from landward with three boats to one side, you from the sea with our other three boats. Ten crew to each craft should get the job done well.

“Go to the villages of Pachino, Noto and Avola, get the men together. Tell them to come armed and bring them here to me. Say there is a rich payday to be had for any who know how to kill and keep their mouths shut. They know that there is better money to be had following me than chasing fish, or scratching a living from the earth. Go now!”

Marlanese waddled back to the armchair on his boat, where he sat honing his blade on the sole of a boot, dreaming of the riches to come.

From the small port in their cabin on the Sea Djinn, the Rizzoli Troupe had glimpsed the encounter between White Ram and the larger vessel. They had also witnessed Al Misurata’s boat being sunk beneath him. Otto nodded his big, shaven head regretfully. “Ach, such a pity that man was not drowned or eaten by der sharks!”

Mamma nodded her agreement. “At least the ship got away unharmed, so we know Ben and Ned are safe.”

Serafina questioned Mamma anxiously. “You think Ben and Ned are aboard that ship?”

Signore Rizzoli smiled reassuringly. “For sure, ragazza, why else would Misurata bother with it? The capitano of that ship is a very brave man, to face the slaver and his men down, and escape as he did.”

Mummo chuckled. “I’d like to be a fly on the wall of that pirate’s cabin right now. He didn’t look in the least pleased when they hauled him aboard dripping wet!”

The clown was right in his assumption—Al Misurata was in a furious mood. Clad only in a silken wrap, he paced the cabin in a rage, venting his spleen on Bomba and Ghigno.

“Why did you not fire upon them before they had a chance to sink my boat? Must I forever be surrounded by fools and halfwits?”

Bomba kept silent, knowing it was the best course in the present situation. The pirate ignored him, staring fixedly at Ghigno, demanding an answer. “Why?”

The scar-faced Corsair tried to sound reasonable. “But Lord, we thought only of your safety. You were between them and us, we could not risk cannon fire!”

Al Misurata knew Ghigno spoke the truth, but he was not prepared to accept any explanation in his irate mood. “Hah, or you’re not a good enough shot! Did you send word to my agent, the one who keeps messenger birds?”

Ghigno nodded vigorously. “With all speed, Lord, I sent my best man. Your message is on its way.”

Al Misurata poured wine, but only for himself. The irony in his voice was not lost on Ghigno. “Oh good! Let’s hope that cousin of yours, Padre Marlanese, can read. Right, set a course for Passero, there’s too much time been wasted idling in these waters!”

It was Ghigno and Bomba’s turn to take their wrath out on the crew, which they did with malicious pleasure. Shortly thereafter, the Sea Djinn was heeling around the point of Gozo Island, bow on for Cape Passero on the southern tip of Sicily.

When they were out in open water, the Rizzoli Troupe were allowed on deck to take the air and stretch their legs. La Lindi immediately set about charming one of the more gullible deckhands. With the information she had elicited from him, she joined the others on the fo’c’sle.

“We’re sailing to Sicily, after the ship Ben’s on.”

Augusto Rizzoli was much cheered by the news. “Eh, bella Sicilia! It’s only a short hop from there to Italy. If we dock there I think we should try to jump ship at the first opportunity, my friends.”

Mamma shook her head. “All nine of us, including Mwaga and Poppea? What chance would we stand?”

Her husband shrugged. “Any chance would be a good chance, my love. We’ve got to start helping ourselves. We cannot rely on the boy and his dog forever.”

Otto nodded. “Ja, you are right, mein Herr. I wonder where they have stowed our wagon?”

Buffo nodded toward the midship hold. “Down there, but it would be impossible to take it with us if we had to run for it.”

The German strongman lowered his voice. “It is not the wagon I am thinking of, but the gun hidden underneath it. If they have not already found it, that gun will come in handy.”

Mummo objected. “Hah, that gun is an ancient wreck. It must be bunged up with sand and dust from travelling under the wagon. A gun like that would be more dangerous to the one using it than to anyone he was firing at!”

Serafina joined in the conversation. “But nobody knows that except us. I think Otto is right, the very threat of a gun gives us an advantage—it would come in handy during an escape.”

Mamma held up her hands. “Keep your voices down, please. Maybe the gun is a good idea, but will they let us into the hold to get it? I don’t think so.”

La Lindi spoke up. “I have an idea. Otto, where exactly is the gun?”

“Just under the platform by the back door of the wagon. It hangs upon two hooks. There is also a little bag with it, containing powder, flint and musket balls. How do you plan on reaching it, Frau Lindi?”

The snake charmer looked to the large basket in which her python was coiled. “If Mwaga got loose and slithered down into the hold, I don’t think any crewman would be willing to go after him. But I would.”

Serafina was beginning to see the possibilities of her friend’s scheme. “Of course! You are the only one who could handle Mwaga. Let’s go down onto the hatch covers and pretend we’re rehearsing our act. Everybody will be doing something, it will create a diversion.”

Otto beamed at his beautiful young friend. “Sehr gut, Mädchen!²⁹ Let us get our equipment, ja!”

The vessel was riding easily under a steady breeze, sails thrumming tautly in the fine weather. Most of the crew were not busy, so they gathered to watch the free show put on by the troupe. Buffo and Mummo had mops and buckets; they played the part of two stupid sailors, mopping the deck. Amid hearty laughter from the onlookers, the two clowns slipped and slithered in an imaginary storm at sea, arguing and buffeting one another with the damp mops.

La Lindi opened the basket and took the giant python out, as Signore Rizzoli tuned his mandolin and Serafina began setting up a rhythm on her Kongo drum. La Lindi found a space in the hatch boards. She was getting ready to slip Mwaga between them when she heard Mamma’s urgent whisper.

“Be careful, that Bomba fellow and the scar-faced one are watching us!”

The pair were leaning on the rear deck gallery rail, viewing the show.

Signore Rizzoli nodded to Serafina. “Come, cara mia, let’s divert them with your voice. Sing!”

Together they strolled aft along the hatch tops, halting close to Bomba and Ghigno. Mounting the stairs to the rear deck, the beautiful black girl broke out into song.

“Sandalwood from Lebanon, fragrant and sweet,

ripe pomegranates delicious to eat,

and oh, the aroma of Rahat Lakoum,

roses which grow ’neath Anatolia’s moon.

Silks from Cathay and the flow’rs of the East,

spread o’er the table of our wedding feast.

Bear them o’er deep seas and wild bounding main,

tell me, o tell me, you love me again.

And again . . . and again.

“Laden with spices and incense so rare,

ivory combs to grace long raven hair,

camels and caravans traverse the sands,

out of the dust of old Egypt’s far lands.

Bright are the stars in the dark skies above,

yonder the ship comes which carries her love. She sings as the waves softly break on the shore,

O tell me you’ll care for me, love evermore.

Evermore . . . evermore.”

Serafina’s vibrant, husky voice clung to the final note, as Bomba and Ghigno stood caught in its spell. Signore Rizzoli cast a swift glance back to the hatch tops. Mummo nodded to him—both La Lindi and Mwaga were nowhere to be seen.

Fully dressed in black and white robes and turban, Al Misurata appeared behind both his henchmen. His mood had not improved greatly; he scowled sourly at them.

“Haven’t you seen enough of these fools performing? Get to my cabin, we have things to discuss!”

Neither man argued. They went dutifully ahead of him into the captain’s quarters.

Otto lay flat on the hatch cover with his back against the boards. He held a weighted barbell, with Buffo and Mummo sitting atop the iron balls at either end. The crew were counting aloud as he performed a number of press-ups with the formidable weight. “Seventeen! Eighteen! Nineteen!”

La Lindi’s voice reached him from beneath the board below his head. “I’ve got it, bring me up, the gun is in the basket!”

The strongman carried on until he had done thirty presses with the barbell. He put it aside and allowed the two clowns to roll it away. Still lying flat out, Otto waved to acknowledge the crew’s cheers, then he made as if to rise, but fell back, calling to them, “Enough, I’ve done enough. Oof! My back hurts, I’ll lie here awhile. The show’s over, thank you!”

The sailors drifted off gradually. When they had gone, Mamma tapped Otto’s shoulder. “Now, quickly!”

He leaped up with a bound, which belied any injury to his back. Buffo and Mummo whipped back the section of hatch cover speedily, as Otto hauled La Lindi, her snake and the basket onto the deck with a single jerk. The clowns slid the hatch cover back into place, and the Rizzoli Troupe wandered casually back to their accommodations.

Signore Rizzoli examined the gun, which was an old blunderbuss his father had used for scaring birds from the crops on their land. He shook his head doubtfully.

“This gun will need a lot of attention. All the rust must be scraped off, and it will have to be cleaned and oiled, especially the mechanism.”

Otto had been checking the pouch. “At least the powder’s still dry, and the flint is in good order, the balls, too. So, once the gun is cleaned up we will have something to fight back with.”

Mamma frowned. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that!”

Signore Rizzoli patted his wife’s hand comfortingly. “Justice will prevail, cara mia, don’t fret. We are all in the hands of the Almighty, He will help.”

Otto looked up from inspecting the bore of the gun. “That is true, Mamma, though sometimes the Almighty does not mind us helping ourselves!”