Voyage of Slaves

11

MIDMORNING OF THE FOLLOWING DAY found the troupe outside their guest quarters. They were rehearsing some routines, when the stern-faced Jasmina came with news from Al Misurata for Augusto Rizzoli. “My master orders me to inform you there will be no entertainment today. You will be leaving here to board his ship. Pack all your belongings, and be ready to travel this evening after the noon heat dies down.”

Ben was helping Serafina to groom Poppea. He scratched the mare’s muzzle. “Do you hear that, old girl? You’re going to become a sea horse shortly.”

Mamma Rizzoli questioned Jasmina. “Where will we be sailing from, how long will it take for us to get to the ship?”

The servant woman replied curtly. “The Sea Djinn is anchored at the pier near the town of Misurata. It is no great distance, you should arrive about dawn tomorrow.”

Ben looked up from his work. “Will you be coming, too?”

Jasmina shook her head. “You never learn, do you, boy? Still asking questions.”

The boy’s curious eyes shone disarmingly. “Sorry!”

She drew him to one side, her severe face softening for awhile. Dropping her voice, she spoke to him confidentially. “My place is here, as a servant, I will not be going on the voyage. But Bomba will be sailing with you, boy. Watch your back, and sleep with one eye open—he will kill you and your dog if he gets the chance. I know Bomba, he is a dangerous man. He blames you for all his woes, and the master’s loss of respect for him. Believe me, Bomba will not rest until he has had his revenge upon you. He carries grudges like a camel carries its hump.” Jasmina avoided Ben’s searching gaze as he replied.

“Thank you, marm, but why do you concern yourself about me? We’ll probably never meet again once I leave here.”

She lifted Ben’s chin lightly with her cane. “Truly you are a mysterious one, so bright and clever. I feel that the fates have marked you for better things than death at the hands of a thick-brained idiot. Go with your God, young infidel, and may his shadow protect you!” The woman’s face returned to its customary stern cast. “As for that dog, I do not like it, I have always feared dogs. As far as I am concerned, its fate is in the wind. But you remember my advice and tread carefully!” She turned, hurrying off back to the big house.

Ben stroked Ned absently as they watched her go indoors. The Labrador commented mentally, “What a shame, oh dearie me, so she doesn’t like dogs, eh? Well, I’m not too fussy on hatchet-faced harridans who go about waving canes, so there!”

Ben tugged his dog’s ear. “Still, it was good of her to warn me—she could have just tended to her own affairs.”

Augusto Rizzoli beckoned Ben to sit beside him on the wagon step. He nodded knowingly. “So, it seems trouble is about to cross your path, Benno. These old ears are keener than they have a right to be. Didn’t I hear the lady mention Bomba’s name more than once?”

Ben sighed. “Yes, Signore, Bomba has become my enemy.”

The showman began packing his mandolin carefully into its travelling case. “Ah, but I feel you are not telling me all. There is more, eh, Benno? Something tells me you are concerned about our little family . . .”

Ned placed a paw on Ben’s foot. “Go easy, mate, don’t tell him too much—think of what you say!”

Holding the mandolin case as the showman secured it, Ben made his decision. “Signore Rizzoli, Ned and I owe you a great deal, so I will try to be as frank as I can with you. The troupe will be in no danger until we dock at Piran, in Slovenija. Al Misurata is not what he seems, he is a pirate and a slave trader. But you must keep this knowledge to yourself, or it will cause hardship and misery to your wife and friends. I cannot tell you any more at the present, but I promise you that Ned and I will see that the Rizzoli Troupe reach Italy together. Show Al Misurata that you suspect nothing, act normally, but do not trust him or the one they call Ghigno. At the moment my life is in great danger. Ned and I need to escape Bomba—also, we must be free if we are to help you. So, if at some time I go missing, please do not think badly of me, but rest assured my dog and I will return to your aid.”

Ned’s thoughts interrupted Ben. “Oh, so we’re going to escape. Thanks for telling me!”

Ben sent a silent plea to the dog. “Can we discuss this later, Ned, please?”

Augusto Rizzoli sat staring at Ben in silence for an uncomfortably long time. Then he took the boy’s hand firmly. “Benno, where do you come from, who sent you to us? I understand little about all you have told me, but I see the wisdom of ages in your strange young eyes. Know that you have my trust. I could not bring myself to think badly of you, or this good dog. Do what you must, Benno, for yourself, and for all of us!”

The hot Libyan day gradually faded to eventide coolness. Through the open compound gates, the caravan made its way into the dunes and desert scrubland. Mounted on a superbblack Arab stallion, Al Misurata cut a dashing sight. He was dressed in a blouse and pantaloons of crimson silk, covered by a high-collared black cloak, topped off with a turban of white cotton.

The pirate rode at the head of the cavalcade with an escort of four horsemen. Behind them came three wagons, the middle one of which was the Rizzoli cart. To the rear were more fine-looking horses, presumably to be used in trade. Either side of the procession was a score of camel riders. These wore hooded burnooses and had dust bandannas pulled up to their eyes. They were hard-looking men, armed with the long, ornamented, flintlock rifles called jezzails.

Two more guards walked alongside Poppea, holding her halter on either side. Ben and Ned enjoyed the welcome evening breeze as they sat on the back step of the wagon, exchanging thoughts. At first Ned had been slightly huffy about not being told of an escape attempt. He regained his composure, however, not being able to stay silent for any great length of time.

“Er, this plan of yours, tell me more about it. I’m with you of course, just say the word, mate!”

Ben glanced at the armed riders surrounding them. “We’ll have to watch for a chance. Not now, but when the right opportunity presents itself. I know you’re with me, Ned, I wouldn’t dream of making a move without you.”

The black Labrador settled his chin on his friend’s knee. “Maybe just before we sail would be a good time. If we could slip away unnoticed, it’d be too late for old Al Miserable to turn the ship around and search for us.”

Ben dismissed the idea. “That would leave the whole of the Mediterranean Sea between us and the troupe. How could we help them then?”

Ned’s tongue lolled out to one side of his mouth. “Silly me, I never thought of that. So, go on, what’s the plan, O Mysterious Benno?”

Ben still had no formulated idea. “I’m not sure, Ned, but if we do try an escape, it’ll be at either Malta or Sicily, before we reach Slovenija.”

The Labrador gave a startled wuff. “What’s all this about Malta and Sicily, mate? First I’ve heard about us going to either place.”

Ben explained. “I overheard two of the guards talking. One of them hadn’t made the trip before, but the other was an old hand. He said the voyage is always made in two stages. Al Misurata goes ashore to meet with his agents while the ship takes on fresh supplies. Usually they put in to Valletta in Malta, but sometimes they visit Siracusa in Sicily. It all depends on how Al Misurata feels. Nobody knows until he tells the helmsman to alter course. Either place would be suitable for us to make the break, because I’ll wager there’s lots of ships go to Slovenija and Italy from Malta or Sicily.”

Night fell over the desert. A three-quarter moon illuminated the dunes eerily, casting pale light and deep shadow on both sides of the caravan trail. Mamma opened the half-door of the wagon.

“Come on in, you two, get a bite to eat and some rest.”

There was not much room inside, but it was a cosy, lantern-lit atmosphere. Ben and Ned sat between Serafina and Otto, sharing some flat bread and fruit. Buffo and Mummo began to sing. They had good voices, and could harmonise cleverly, without the aid of instrumental accompaniment. Both men were from Vicenza, like their brother Augusto and his wife. They sang a local ballad extolling the virtues of home.

“Soft as the breath of angels, breezes drift o’er my land, grape-laden vines entwining, await the harvester’s hand.

Sweet as the kiss of sunlight, gently caressed by the rain,

O vale of my home, Vicenza, when will I see thee again?

“O bella mamma mia, I hear the bells ring clear, the chapel of Santa Vicenza, calls to her children dear.

Echoes from snowy mountains, cross pastures of peaceful green, to the poor wand’ring exiles, my children, where have you been?”

The cart trundled on into the star-strewn desert night. One by one its occupants dropped into slumber, lulled by the gentle, jogging motion of its spell.

It was almost dawn when Bomba banged on the door of the wagon, haranguing them. “Come on, out with the lot of you. We’ve got to get this cart loaded on board, move yourselves!”

Serafina hurried to the door. “Listen, can you hear the waves? Ben, Ned, let’s go and see the big ship!”

The Sea Djinn was truly a massive and curious-looking vessel. Al Misurata and Ghigno had stripped the superstructure from a captured Spanish galleon, and rigged it to suit their purpose. From the stern, right through the midships, four large masts had each been fitted with a large triangular sail, like a yacht or a dhow. On the forecastle deck was another mast, rigged with a big, single, square sail, like a Viking ship. The huge vessel was moored alongside a long jetty, which ran out into the sea. Sea Djinn loomed large and sinister in the gloomy half-light which heralded day.

Ben stared up the tarred black timber sides and ornamental rails to the dark red sails. He was filled with an unreasoning dread, which he conveyed to Ned.

“This is a big ship sure enough, but I don’t like it, I can’t say what it is. The Sea Djinn has a feeling of evil about it. What do you think, mate?”

The black Labrador shuddered, then shook himself. “Aye, you’re right, it’s a bad ship!”

Serafina stared upward, wide-eyed, at the mighty vessel. “It’s the biggest boat I’ve ever seen in my life!”

Ghigno appeared at the stern gallery. He smiled down at the girl, his scarred face contorting into a horrid leer. “It’s a ship, pretty one, not a boat. I hope you’ll enjoy your voyage on Sea Djinn. Now you’d best move off this jetty before they start loading cargo.”

Poppea reared and whinnied when she was brought to the jetty. Digging her hooves in, the mare refused to go any further. Ned sent a comment to Ben. “You see, even the horse can feel it’s a bad ship!”

Otto soon solved the dilemma. Unfastening Poppea from the cart shafts, he blindfolded her with his waistcoat and passed her into the care of Serafina. Ben and the girl stroked the mare, whispering softly to reassure her. The big German strongman stood in the shafts, pulling the cart along the jetty to where the midship rail had been removed. Whilst the crew wheeled the cart on board, Serafina and Ben walked the blindfolded horse along the narrow jetty, leading her aboard behind the cart.

By mid-afternoon the vessel was fully laden. She set sail, outward bound on the rising tide. It was smooth going, with a fair wind at their stern. The Rizzoli troupe were in high spirits, thoroughly enjoying the feeling of being afloat. Ben stayed on deck with Ned whilst the entertainers went to explore their cabins, which were in the forecastle. It was not long before Serafina came hurrying out on deck. She waved to them.

“Ben, Ned, come and see our cabins. They’re rather small, but very comfortable. Come on, I’ll show you!”

Ben got as far as the alleyway between the cabins, then peered into the semidarkness, drawing back as a feeling of dread overcame him. “Er, no, thank you. Ned and I prefer it out here on deck.”

Serafina began harmlessly teasing him, pulling Ben into the alleyway. “What’s the matter, are you afraid of the dark? Come on, Ned, stop hanging back!”

However, Ben was unaware of her voice. Suddenly his entire being was filled with visions of Vanderdecken, the captain of the Flying Dutchman, and his ghastly crew.

They were lurking in the gloom of the passage, waiting for both him and Ned. Hands with clawlike nails, bitten black and puce by frostbite, scrabbled to grab them. Grimacing faces of the long dead hissed curses of hatred at the pair, who had, by the grace of the Lord’s angel, escaped the eternal voyage of the damned aboard the hellship.

Ben and Ned stood petrified within the alleyway opening as Captain Vanderdecken, master of the Flying Dutchman, loomed large in front of them. His insane eyes glittered balefully, and he snarled at them through bloodless lips.

“I have been waiting for you, my children, always waiting, knowing you would return to the sea, where I can claim you as my own forever. Come to me!”

Serafina left off teasing her friends, suddenly frightened and concerned for them. They were both trembling as if in the grip of a severe fever. Ben’s face was ashen, coated in icy sweat, while Ned was whining, cowering like some beaten cur. The girl shook them, calling out in alarm.

“Ben! Ned! What is it, are you ill?” She tugged them bodily out onto the sunlit deck.

The black Labrador gave a long, piteous moan, and the boy collapsed in a heap. Alerted by the dog’s howl and the girl’s shouts, the troupe came hurrying from their cabins.

Bomba watched the scene, listening to what went on as he leaned against the midship rails. One of the crew was with him, a small, furtive-looking villain called Abrit. They saw Otto pick Ben up and carry him to the fo’c’sle deck, where he seated him with his back to a locker. Mamma Rizzoli chafed the boy’s cold hands and patted his cheeks, trying to restore their colour.

“By all the saints, what happened to him, cara mia?”

Serafina looked up from hugging Ned, obviously baffled. “I don’t know, Mamma, he was afraid to go into the passage between the cabins—Ned, too. They went all pale and shaky, so I pulled them back out onto the deck.”

Signore Rizzoli ventured a diagnosis. “Maybe it is the mal de mer, the seasickness. There are some who suffer badly from it.”

La Lindi indicated the dog. “And Ned, too? It is very odd, both of them overcome by seasickness at the same moment.”

Mummo suggested helpfully, “Perhaps Ned was not seasick. I think he was distressed just because his master fell ill. Look, Ben is beginning to come round!”

Opening his eyes slowly, Ben stared at the anxious faces gathered around him. He caught the thoughts Ned was directing at him.

“They think you’ve been seasick, mate, so stick to that explanation. We don’t want them knowing about the Dutchman!”

Serafina passed a clean, damp cloth over Ben’s forehead. “You had me worried. How are you feeling now?”

The boy’s strange, clouded eyes blinked gratefully at her. He sat up straight, wiping damp hair from his brow. “I think seasickness suddenly took hold of me, Serafina. It was either that or the heat and darkness of that alleyway, I’m not sure. I’ll be alright now, don’t worry. Ned and I will stay out on deck for the rest of the trip. Thanks for the help you gave us.”

Bomba saw Otto glance his way; he averted his eyes, making it appear that he had no interest in what was going on upon the foredeck. The slave driver whispered to the small crewman alongside him, “How would you like to earn two gold pieces, my friend?”

Greed shone in Abrit’s eyes. “Two gold pieces, eh, who d’you want me to kill?”

The big man continued staring out to sea. “Are you still good at throwing the knife?”

Abrit patted the handle of the long, hefty dagger which he carried in the back of his waistband. “I can throw this blade like no other, you have seen me do it many times before, Bomba. Who do you want dead?”

Bomba drew close to the assassin’s ear, whispering, “The infidel boy, he will be sleeping out on deck from now on. A swift throw in the dark night watches, one slain brat slipping gently into the sea. Who would know? The boy was ill anyhow. What could be simpler to one of your skills, little man?”

Abrit glanced up at Ben, then looked away. “The dog, it never leaves his side. For three gold pieces I would rid you of them both.”

Bomba frowned. “You are the son of a miserly she-wolf. Two gold coins is a fair price, even for both of them. What do you say, eh?”

Abrit shook his head, sticking to his price. “Three gold coins, or you do the job yourself. The dog cannot be left alive once the boy is slain. Three!”

Bomba spat over the side, knowing the small man had won. “Three it is, then, but I want the thing done properly!”

Abrit nodded. “When I kill them, they stay dead, believe me. Payment in advance, give me the gold now, friend.”

Grumbling, Bomba slipped him three thin coins. “There, it is all I possess. You are a mean little man!”

Testing each coin with his teeth, the assassin chuckled. “Aye, and you will be a big, happy man tomorrow morning. The poor boy leaned overboard to be sick during the night. Alas, he fell into the sea, and his faithful hound went after him. So, the ship sails on, and they are both gone forever. Then you will be avenged for the loss of face and favour with our master, Al Misurata!”

Bomba hated his fall from grace being discussed. “Shut your mouth and go about your business, you spawn of sun-dried camel spit!”

Abrit smiled sweetly, though his eyes were hard as stone. “Sometimes I do not throw the knife. Often I just creep up and slip it twixt the ribs of big men who have insulted Abrit. Guard your tongue, friend Bomba!” He strode jauntily off, whistling between his teeth.