Corsair

EIGHT

CONSUL MAARTIN was finding mercer Newland a bore. He was beginning to wish that his dragoman had not been so adroit with his bribe to the Dey’s office. The tubby English businessman had been released into consular care on the very same day as the slave sale, and for more than a month Consul Martin had been enduring Newland’s tedious company while waiting to hear back from London about his ransom. The consul had given the cloth merchant a room in his house, and it was only common courtesy to invite him to dinner from time to time. Unfortunately the mercer had no interesting conversation to offer and held very entrenched opinions, so the invitations, which had originally been once or twice a week, had now lapsed. Consul Martin, however, made an exception when he finally got news that an official government delegation was on its way from London to Algiers to deal with the hostage question. Martin presumed that whoever was raising money in London for Newland’s ransom would take the opportunity of sending the payment with the government delegation.

‘One hopes that the delegation from London will have a fair wind for their voyage here, Mr Newland,’ said the consul, rolling a small pellet of bread between his fingers. It was the last morsel of a flat loaf of particularly delicious local bread. When on his own, the consul adopted the Turkish style of eating, reclining on cushions on the floor. But when he had Christian guests, he kept a more normal service with table and chairs. However, he drew the line at serving hearty meals of roast meat and potatoes. He and his guest had just eaten a delicious lamb kebab and homous. ‘The weather in the Mediterranean is very unpredictable. So there’s no way of knowing exactly when the envoy will arrive.’

‘Have the terms of my release been finally agreed, do you know?’ asked the mercer bluntly.

‘That I can’t say. The envoy is on government business and his official duty is to arrange the ransom of ordinary English captives, not men of substance like yourself.’ The consul watched Newland preen himself at the compliment. ‘But it is to be expected that your own principal – I think you said it was Mr Sewell of Change Alley – will take advantage of this delegation to conclude the matter of your own release. If all goes well, you should be travelling back with the envoy himself.’

The mercer adopted his usual self-important tone. ‘I hope that the negotiations over the ordinary captives, as you call them, will not delay matters.’

‘That is difficult to predict. Unfortunately there is a history of the Algerines demanding high ransoms, and the envoy arriving with insufficient funds to meet them. Inevitably a period of offer and counter-offer follows until a final arrangement is agreed.’

‘Could you not point out to the Dey and his bandits that I, and the others, should never have been taken prisoner in the first place; that our kidnap broke the terms of the treaty between our countries? You should insist.’

Inwardly the consul grimaced. The thought of insisting on anything with the Dey and the odjaks was counterproductive as well as dangerous. ‘The Algerines enjoy bartering,’ he commented blandly. ‘They feel cheated if there are not some negotiations.’

‘Then the bartering should be done by men who are used to it, to men of affairs,’ Newland asserted. ‘We would get a better outcome.’

‘I’m sure that the local intermediary who acted on your behalf, the Jew Yaakov, was very skilled in his negotiations,’ reassured Martin.

‘But the treaty, the treaty. The Algerines cannot be allowed to get away with ignoring their treaty obligations.’

The consul thought to himself that Newland, if he had not been so self-opinionated, should know by now that the Dey and the divan made and broke agreements as it suited them. He wondered if he should point out to Newland that many a merchant would vary or break a trade agreement if he could do so without being sued and it was to his advantage. Yet Newland was expecting the Algerines to behave differently when, in fact, their slave-taking was merely a matter of business. In the end the consul decided not to provoke the mercer.

‘The fact is, Mr Newland, that when you and those unfortunate Irish were taken prisoner by the corsair Hakim Reis, the treaty was temporarily set aside. The Dey had announced in council that it was being suspended because too many ships were sailing under English passes to which they were not entitled, and that the English were abusing the terms of the treaty by selling their passes to foreign shipowners.’

‘So that rascal Hakim Reis was within his rights to take us?’

‘Technically, yes. The Dey and the divan had made their decision to abrogate the treaty some weeks earlier. They informed me that a state of war between our nations was being resumed, and I sent word to London to that effect. But there was no public announcement until the same week you were captured.’

‘News travels quickly in this part of the world if that corsair scoundrel was so well informed.’

‘Hakim Reis is an unusually successful and acute corsair, Mr Newland. He seems always alert to the most immediate opportunity. It was your misfortune to be in his path.’

‘And how long did this state of war continue?’ persisted Newland. The tone of his question indicated that he thought Martin was making excuses, and that he had failed to insist that the Dey met his obligations.

‘For less than two months,’ answered the consul, making an effort to keep even-tempered. ‘Last week I was summoned to the Dey’s palace and told that the treaty would be restored, on the orders of the Sublime Porte. That is an excuse the Dey uses often. He says one thing, then reverses his position, claiming that he has been overruled by the Sultan. But it does mean that the envoy from London will be warmly received and there is every likelihood that your own release is imminent.’

And not a moment too soon, he thought to himself.

THE INJURED mining technician was the first to tell Hector about the rumour of a delegation from London. The two of them were at the quarry, weighing and mixing measures of gunpowder for a new set of blasting charges. The technician, Josias Buckley, seemed strangely unexcited by the news. ‘Aren’t you looking forward to going home?’ Hector asked, puzzled.

‘No, I won’t be going home as you call it,’ Buckley replied as he gently transferred another spoonful of the black powder from a barrel into a canvas pouch. ‘I’ll be staying here. This is where I’ve made my life.’

Hector looked at Buckley in astonishment. During his weeks as his assistant, he had grown to respect the man for his skill and the careful, patient way in which he had guided him in the art of handling explosives.

‘What about your family? Won’t they be missing you?’ Hector asked. He was thinking back, as he so often did, to what might have happened to Elizabeth.

‘I have no family left,’ replied Buckley quietly. ‘My wife and I never had children, and she was working at the mill when there was an accident. That was back at home in England, near two years ago now. She and a dozen others were blown to pieces. There was not even enough left of her to give her a proper burial, poor soul. Afterwards I decided I would seek my fortune here in Barbary. I imagined there would be a demand for gunpowder men like myself so I came here of my own free will. The beylik pays me a wage, and I share a house with others like myself, ordinary men who came here to find a new home. The Turks do not demand we change to their religion.’

They finished preparing the gunpowder and were carrying the mix over to the rock face where the work gangs had drilled out the holes ready to receive the charges. Hector noticed how the labourers moved away nervously as they approached. At the first of the holes, Buckley began to pour in the gunpowder. ‘Two pounds’ weight is about right,’ he said to Hector. ‘Make sure the powder is packed evenly. No lumps. Here pass me a length of fuse, will you?’

With the powder and fuse in place, he took a conical wooden plug from the sack which Hector had carried for him and, pressing it into the hole, began to tap it into place, the pointed end upward. The first time Hector had seen this done, he had dreaded an accident. But Buckley had reassured him that gunpowder would only ignite with a spark or fire, not from the blow of a hammer. ‘Now, lad,’ he said, once the plug was driven tight, ‘fill the rest of the hole with earth and chippings and tamp everything down so that it is nice and snug. But not too tight so that the fuse chokes off and doesn’t burn through.’

They moved on to the next hole in the rock to repeat the process, and Hector took his chance to ask, ‘Where was the mill where you worked before?’

‘In the county of Surrey where my family had lived for generations. Years ago we used to make up small quantities of gunpowder in our own house until the government regulations came in. Then the big mills took over, and the monopolists had their chance. The small family producers could not compete, so we went to work in the mill. Of course we got jobs straight away as we knew the trade so well. My father and grandfather and his father had all been petremen, as far back as anyone could remember.’

He saw Hector was looking bemused.

‘Petremen,’ he repeated, ‘that’s what they called the men who went round the country looking for saltpetre. They had authority to go into hen houses, barnyards, farm middens and take whatever scrapings they could find. Without saltpetre – and a lot of it – there’s no gunpowder.’

‘Sounds like Latin,’ said Hector. ‘Sal-petrae would mean “salt of stones”, so how come you found it in a hen house?’

‘There you go again. You’re too smart for your own good, what with all that education,’ answered Buckley, poking a wooden rod into the next drill hole to make sure that it was not clogged. ‘You find saltpetre wherever stale piss or dung has had time to ripen. Don’t ask me how. It’s said that the best piss for saltpetre comes out of a drunken bishop.’

He chuckled. ‘The petremen would gather up the ordure and carry it back to their homes where they could boil and strain and purify it. Slow work. It takes nearly a hundred pounds of scrapings to make a half pound of petre, and that’s the main ingredient for gunpowder – seventy-five parts of petre to ten parts of brimstone and fifteen parts of charcoal, and you should use willow charcoal if you can get it.’

He laid the rod aside and reached out for the bag of tools and materials that Hector was carrying.

‘Now everything’s different. The gunpowder mills bring in their saltpetre from India. And there’s no more grinding by hand, which used to take hours and hours. It’s all done by machines. Big stamping machines. And of course the people who are employed don’t have the old knowledge, and so accidents happen. A wild spark, and the whole lot goes up. So my wife dies, and both my cousins.’

He paused to cut off another length of fuse cord, and laid it carefully into the next hole before pouring in the correct measure of powder.

‘When I first came here,’ he went on, ‘I had dreams of setting up my own gunpowder mill and supplying good powder to the Turks. In my family there was a story that in the days of Queen Bess we got our petre from Barbary and it was made into the cannon powder that stopped the Great Armada. So I thought I would find petre here in Algiers, and add brimstone from Sicily because everyone knows that you find yellow brimstone near volcanoes. But as it turned out, I never found the petre and the Sicilian brimstone was poor stuff, full of impurities. So I had to go round the local pigeon lofts, just like my great-grandfather, and collect up the droppings. In the end it wasn’t worth it. I could make serpentine but not the corned powder that the Turks wanted for their cannon and muskets.’

‘I don’t know the difference,’ Hector said deferentially. He felt that if he was to work safely with Buckley, he should learn everything that the technician was willing to tell him.

‘There’s a world of difference. Serpentine is what we made at home, basic gunpowder if you like. It’s all right if you keep it dry and mix it well. But it’s unreliable. It was a charge of serpentine, exploding late, which near cost me my right arm the other day. Corned powder is mill-made, and shaken through sieves so it is graded nice and regular. Small grains for muskets and pistols, larger grains for the big guns. There’s no one making corned powder in all the lands of the Grand Turk, as far as I know. Certainly not here in Algiers. Anyone who managed to do so, would command his own price.’

‘Talking about price,’ Hector ventured, ‘if it’s true that there’s someone coming from London to buy back captives, what sort of price will he be paying?’

Buckley gave the young man a sympathetic glance. ‘Whatever his budget allows. And then only if he is an honest man. There are a lot of sticky fingers when it comes to handling ransoms.’

WORK AT THE quarry finished an hour before sunset, and as soon as he was free to do so, Hector hurried back to the bagnio, eager to find Dan. He was looking forward to telling him about the expected envoy from London and that they were soon to be ransomed. From his first day in the bagnio when Dan had rescued him from the lecherous kaporal, Hector had found himself increasingly grateful to his fellow captive. The Miskito had continued to share with him the vegetables he stole from his gardening, and had coached the young Irishman in the ways of the bagnio. Without that knowledge Hector doubted he would have survived.

Hector could not see his friend in the bagnio courtyard, so he went up to their dormitory to see if perhaps Dan had gone there. But without success. Wondering what had detained Dan, Hector was halfway back down the stairway when he noticed two Turkish guards enter the courtyard through the arched passage leading to the main gate. They were carrying a prisoner between them. Hector stopped short. The man hanging between the two guards was Dan, and his legs were trailing limply on the ground. Hector knew at once what had happened. He raced down the stair and across the courtyard, arriving just at the moment the two guards dropped their burden and Dan collapsed on the ground, face down. ‘Dan!’ he cried anxiously, ‘try to get up on your knees, and put one arm over my shoulder. I’ll lift you.’

Hearing Hector’s voice, Dan raised his head and gave a grimace of pain. ‘Usanza and fantasia,’ he muttered. ‘I forgot my own advice.’ Then, his face contorted with the effort, the Miskito half-rose and clung to his friend so that Hector was able to assist him slowly and carefully up to the dormitory where he laid Dan gently on his bunk.

The normally phlegmatic Miskito groaned as he stretched out his legs.

‘Was it bad?’ asked Hector.

‘Forty blows. But it could have been worse. Might have been fifty or more. The aga di baston was that pervert, Emilio’s friend. He laid on specially hard for what I did to his crony.’

‘How did it happen?’

‘It was stupid of me. I was working in the masserie when a Turkish guard discovered a local woman hiding in the bushes nearby. I had seen her several times before, and knew she used to meet up with one of the other gardeners from time to time. He’s a Spanish slave and sells stolen vegetables cheaply to her as she’s a poor woman and has little money to spare. But the guard thought she was having a love affair with one of the gardeners, and began to beat her. I intervened as the Spaniard wasn’t nearby. This made the guard think that I was the lover, and he began beating me too. The commotion brought other guards, and I was taken back down to the bagnio. They clamped my ankles in a wooden yoke which the two guards held up so my shoulders were on the ground and my feet in the air. Then the aga di baston laid on. I was lucky he was beating only the soles of my feet with his staff, for if he had hit me in the ribs I think he would have smashed them. Still, I’m probably luckier than the wretched woman. She’ll be severely punished for consorting with a slave.’

‘Lie still while I get some salve for your feet from that French prisoner who was an apothecary. He’ll sell me some ointment,’ said Hector. Dan winced as he reached inside his shirt and produced a purse dangling around his neck. ‘Here take the money from this,’ he offered. ‘Don’t let him cheat you.’

‘What about tomorrow?’ Hector was worried. ‘It will be days before you can walk again, and you need rest.’

‘Fix it with our friendly kaporal. Give him the remainder of the money. Make it a big enough gileffo so that I am excused work for the next week or so.’

‘Leave it to me,’ said Hector. ‘At least I’ve some news to cheer you up. Someone’s coming from London with money to purchase the release of all English slaves. Maybe when he hears that you were captured by the corsairs when you were on your way to London with a message for the King of England from the Miskito people, he will pay for your release as well so you can complete your mission.’

Dan grinned weakly. ‘Your news, my friend, helps dull the pain more than any ointment. If I had to stay here, I don’t think that I could face another dose of the bastinado.’

CONSUL MARTIN was a humane and sensitive man so normally he disliked visiting the bagnios. Quite apart from their stench and squalor, the slave barracks depressed him because they made him feel a fraud. His standing instructions from London were to be polite and friendly when meeting with his fellow countrymen held prisoner. But he was also told that he was to avoid being drawn into any discussions about possible release. If pressed, he was to discourage any speculation on the subject.

In the consul’s opinion that turned him into a hypocrite.

So he was in an altogether more optimistic mood on the morning he accompanied Mr Abercrombie, the newly arrived English envoy, to interview the prisoners. At last there was a chance to redeem these unfortunate wretches, some of whom had been waiting five or six years for release back to their own country. Nor did the cheerless demeanour of the envoy – the ‘commissioner’ as he preferred to style himself– dampen the consul’s good spirits.

Abercrombie was exactly the sort of person that Martin had expected. He had the manner of a long-serving bookkeeper, and the lugubrious expression on his narrow face was enhanced by a long upper lip and a voice that was lifeless and flat. The commissioner had arrived three days earlier aboard a 40-gun English warship now anchored in the harbour, and his present task was to visit the various bagnios where English prisoners were being held. There the envoy would audit the true value of each slave, for it had been agreed with the Dey that whoever owned the slave was to receive a ransom equal to the sum the slave had originally fetched at auction. Naturally the commissioner made it plain that he mistrusted the accuracy of the sums that the Dey’s secretary had written down for him.

Abercrombie had also told the consul that he intended to check the identities of the captives on the Dey’s list because it was not unknown for impostors to pretend to be dead or missing prisoners in the hopes of obtaining their freedom. In addition, Abercrombie saw it as his duty to make sure that the captives were in good health. It would be a waste of funds, he primly reminded Martin, to ransom an invalid who would then die on the way home.

The audit was well into its second day by the time that Martin and the commissioner, accompanied by their dragoman, arrived at the bagnio where Hector and Dan were being held. According to the official list there were no more than half a dozen English prisoners in the bagnio, and it was clear to Martin that Abercrombie was eager to finish up quickly. A lieutenant of janissaries met them at the gate. After apologising for the Guardian Pasha’s absence, he informed his visitors that all the English prisoners were assembled and ready for their interviews. He then ushered them into the interview room where Martin found the vekil hardj, the Dey’s under-treasurer, already waiting. With him was the Greek slave whom Martin remembered as the interpreter who assisted when new captives were landed in the port. Martin also noted that the interviews were to be held in the same room where new prisoners had their iron anklets fitted. A number of these chains and anklets had been left on display. Wryly he surmised that these manacles were a deliberate encouragement for the commissioner to pay generously for the prisoners’ release.

The half-dozen cases were soon dealt with, and Abercrombie was gathering up his documents and about to take his leave when the Greek, on a quiet suggestion from the vekil hardj, spoke up.

‘Your Excellency, my master asks if you will be interviewing the other slaves today, or do you wish to return tomorrow?’

The commissioner kept his dour expression. Turning to Martin, he asked, ‘What other prisoners? I hope this is not just an attempt to extract additional funds. We have already exceeded our budget as it is. According to the register, there are no other English captives in this slave barracks.’

Martin looked questioningly at the interpreter.

‘The people landed by Hakim Reis,’ the Greek murmured. ‘Their status, you will recall, is undetermined.’

The commissioner was waiting for Martin to explain. ‘What is all this about?’ he enquired acidly.

‘Hakim Reis is a well-known corsair,’ began Martin.

‘I know, I know,’ interrupted Abercrombie. ‘He was the man who took the mercer, Newland. His London agent has been pestering the ministry for weeks, and I have brought with me the first instalment of the money for his ransom. This matter need not detain us.’

‘There were other prisoners taken by Hakim,’ the consul explained. ‘I put their names on a separate register and sent a copy to London.’

Abercrombie searched among his papers. ‘I have no record of this,’ he said peevishly.

‘Should we not interview them while we are here?’ suggested Martin.

‘Very well. But let us not waste any more time.’

The Greek nodded to the guard waiting at the door, and he ushered in a man whom Martin instantly recognised. It was the intelligent-looking youth who had caught his attention on the dock. He was leaner and more tanned, but there was no mistaking his black hair and his alert expression.

‘Your name?’ snapped the commissioner, obviously impatient with the additional interview.

‘Lynch, sir. Hector Lynch.’

‘Your place of birth?’

‘The county of Cork, sir.’

‘That’s in Ireland is it not?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Abercrombie looked down at the paper on the table before him. ‘I do not see your name on this inventory. Your parents and family? Have they made any attempt to contact the authorities in London?’

‘My father is dead, sir. And my mother may not know what happened to me. She could have moved back to live with her own people.’

The commissioner raised his head and regarded the young man with mistrust. ‘Her own people? Who are they?’

‘Her family are from Spain.

‘From Spain?’ Suspicion had crept into the commissioner’s voice. ‘She is a Papist?’

‘Yes, sir. My mother is of the Catholic faith, my father was Protestant.’

Abercrombie pursed his lips. It was obvious to Consul Martin that the English envoy was now hostile to the young man. His line of questioning soon confirmed his antagonism.

‘Your deceased father, was he born in Ireland?’

‘He was, sir.’

‘And had his family lived there for several generations?’

‘That is right.’

Commissioner Abercrombie gave a small dry cough. ‘Then I regret, Mr Lynch, that your case falls outside my remit. The treaty between His Majesty’s government and the authorities in Algiers regarding the redemption of prisoners, covers only those of His Majesty’s subjects born or living in England, Scotland and Wales. There is no mention of Ireland in the text. It would therefore be improper of me to approve disbursement of funds outside the terms of my authority.’

Consul Martin saw a look of disbelief cross the young Irishman’s face, followed by one of stubbornness. Lynch remained standing in front of the desk. The commissioner mistook his attitude for incomprehension.

‘It means, Mr Lynch, that I am unable to authorise payment from the funds at my disposal in order to effect your release or that of others of his Majesty’s Irish subjects. Doubtless that matter can be considered on my return to London. I shall draw attention to this omission, and it is to be hoped that the Council will amend the relevant clauses within the treaty. Until then the matter is out of my hands.’

Martin had been expecting the young Irishman to react with disappointment, even anger. But to his surprise the young man only glanced down at the Dey’s list and asked, ‘With your honour’s permission, are there any women captives on your list?’

Irritably, the commissioner turned the sheet of paper face down and replied, ‘That is none of your affair.’

‘I ask because my sister, Elizabeth, was also taken captive at the same time as myself, and I have had no news of what has happened to her.’

Consul Martin, seeing that the commissioner was not going to answer the question, intervened. ‘We have interviewed all the women prisoners currently in Algiers. There are only five of them, and all their ransom values have been agreed. There was no mention of any Elizabeth.’ Only then did the consul see the light of hope fade from the young Irishman’s eyes.

‘That will be all, Mr Lynch. You may go,’ said the commissioner curtly.

‘I have a favour to ask,’ said the young man. He was still standing his ground.

‘You try my patience,’ said Abercrombie. He was getting angry.

But the Irishman was not to be put off. ‘There is a prisoner here in the bagnio who was taken by the Algerines while travelling to London with a message for the King. In all conscience, he should be considered for ransom. He is waiting outside.’

‘This is as presumptuous as it is preposterous . . .’ began Abercrombie, his voice sour with disbelief. And again the consul thought he should intervene.

‘Where is he from, this message bearer?’ he asked.

‘From the Caribees, sir.’

Consul Martin glanced at the commissioner. Like everyone else engaged in commerce, he knew that the political influence of the West Indian merchants in London was very strong. Anything to do with the Caribees was a matter to be handled carefully. The commissioner clearly had the same reaction so Martin decided that it was best to be prudent. ‘On your way out, please be so good as to tell this person to come in.’

As the young Irishman turned and walked towards the door, the consul found himself wondering if perhaps the authorities in London had been right all along, and that it was kinder never to encourage a prisoner’s hopes, even for a moment. Martin tried to imagine how he himself would react if he had been repudiated so brusquely by the country he had expected to protect him. He very much doubted that he would have mustered the same dignity and self-restraint shown by the young man as he left the room. The consul hoped that the next interview would not turn out to be equally as shameful.

HECTOR LOITERED in the bagnio courtyard as he waited for his friend to emerge from his interview. Deliberately he ignored the black disappointment of his own interrogation as he wondered how Dan was faring.

It was no more than five minutes before his friend reappeared, his expression unreadable. ‘The man in the dark clothes did not believe me,’ said Dan tonelessly. ‘He asked to see a copy of my message for the King. I answered that the Miskito have no writing. We speak our messages, even the most important ones.’

‘What did he say to that?’ asked Hector.

‘He told me that he needed proper evidence, something written on paper, that I was telling the truth. The man sitting beside him was more friendly. He said that he had heard of my people, the Miskito, and that they had helped the English. He even suggested to his companion that because the Miskito asked to be considered as subjects of the King, then my name might be added to the list of those who would be ransomed.’

‘And the other man did not agree?’

‘He answered that he would apply the same rules as he had followed in your case, and that, in addition, the treaty with Algiers only concerned English subjects taken from ships flying the English flag. I had already told him that the corsairs had taken me out of a Spanish ship, so it seems I could not be included on the ransom list.’

Hector looked down at the worn paving slabs of the courtyard. For the very first time in his captivity he despaired. He was crushed by the thought of spending year after year in the bagnio.

‘I’m sorry, Dan,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry. It seems that there is nothing we can do to get out of here. We’ll stay until we rot. No one is going to lift a finger to help us.’

But to his surprise, Dan answered calmly, ‘Then we ourselves will lift a finger.’

Hector looked at his friend in puzzlement. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that we will turn Turk. It doesn’t take much. All you have to do is raise a finger to the sky in the presence of two witnesses who are good Muslims, and acknowledge that Allah is the true God and Muhammad is his prophet. That’s all there is to it . . . and of course you have to be cut.’

‘Cut?’

‘Yes, someone with a knife trims back the skin on your manhood, as a sign that you have converted.’

Despite himself, Hector looked queasy.

‘Well, why not?’ Dan went on. ‘Once you have become a rinigato – become a Muslim – you have a much better chance of finding proper work that takes you out of the bagnio, and it is forbidden to send you to serve in the galleys. You may think that life is hard when working in the quarries, but it is nothing compared to being chained alongside three or four other prisoners and hauling on the handle of a 30-foot-long oar. It’s late summer now, and soon all the galleys are coming back to harbour. But come the spring, every able-bodied man in the bagnio risks being sent to the oar benches.’

Hector thought for a moment. ‘Is there no other way to get out of here? How about the gunpowder man? He’s at liberty and he remains a Christian.’

Dan shook his head. ‘No. The gunpowder man came to Algiers of his own free will. He can stay a Christian. It’s not the same for us. That’s the usanza.’

‘Aren’t you worried about becoming a Mussulman?’

Dan shrugged. ‘As I told you, the Miskito believe in many gods and spirits. And so do the Turks, though they say there is only one God. My master who owns the masserie is a Mussulman but he still believes in what he calls djinns and efrit, the wicked spirits who might snatch him away or do him harm. So I can acknowledge Allah as the one God and still believe in the spirits whom my people have always respected.’

‘Dan, it’s easier for you to take this step than it is for me. My mother, if I ever see her again, will be heartbroken.’

‘Maybe your mother would understand. Hector, listen to me. If you want to search for your sister, you have to get out of the bagnio. There’s nothing you can do to find her or help her while you are confined here. If you become a rinigato, at least you can make enquiries among those who have taken the turban. Maybe they have heard what happened to her. Besides, if you are worried about turning Turk, you can always wear a cross secretly. That’s what some of the other rinigatos do, because they are afraid that their own God will ignore them after they die.’

‘All right,’ announced Hector. He had come to his decision. At times Dan seemed so much more level-headed, more confident than himself, even though there was little difference in their ages. ‘I’ll go through with this, but only if you do the same.’

‘Of course,’ said Dan. ‘We are in this together.’