Voyage of Slaves

14

NINETY-THREE KILOMETRES SOUTH OF SICILY. THE ISLAND OF MALTA.

A STIFF BREEZE WAFTED THE SEA Djinn into maltese waters late that evening. The darkened waves, slightly choppy, reflected waterfront tavern lights. Other ships showed stern and bow lights as they lay at anchor or stood moored to the quay in the harbour of Valletta. As sometimes happens, the night temperature had dropped, leaving the air rather chilled. The Rizzoli Troupe stopped in their cabins, but Ben and Ned stayed up on the fo’c’sle deck. Serafina brought them extra blankets. No sooner had she delivered them and gone back inside, than the boy and his dog went into action. Ben knew they were being watched by their enemies, so he took extra care whilst rigging the diversion which he and Ned had planned.

Standing with his back against the foremast, Ben felt behind his back until he touched the stout length of hempen rope which ran up the rear of the mast to a pulley right at the top. There the rope was secured to the long mainspar of the huge sail billowing out over the vessel’s bow. The sail could be raised or lowered only by this line. Ben felt the curving iron cleats around which the remainder of it was wound. It would take fully seven or eight sailors to hoist or lower the big sail on this rope.

Whilst Ned kept watch at the top of the fo’c’sle steps, Ben began sawing at the tough cord with a sharp knife, which his dog had taken from the galley. Making as little movement as possible, the boy tried to appear as if he was merely leaning against the mast, though behind his back he was pushing the blade back and forth across the thick rope. Ned sent him an enquiry.

“How’s it going back there, mate, having any trouble?”

Ben tried not to grimace as he exerted pressure on the blade. “The hard part is trying to keep my body still. But this rope’s as tight as a fiddle string, so it’s cutting through pretty well. Won’t be long now. When I cough, get ready to move.”

Gripping the knife hard, Ben continued sawing away, feeling the bushy fibres brushing against his wrists as the rope began to part. On the other side of the mast the big red sail towered over the fo’c’sle deck, straining against the breeze, as taut as a drumskin. Ben heard the rope creak drily. This was what he had been waiting for! Stowing the knife in the back of his belt, he coughed aloud, moving away from the mast.

Ned turned and barked defiantly at him, then bounded off down the steps. Ben ran to the top of the steps, calling angrily, “Stay, Ned, stay!”

The black Labrador nipped at a passing sailor and ran down the lower deck barking. Ben came running down the steps after him, shouting commands.

“I said stay! Stop right there, Ned! D’you hear me?”

Gaining the steps to the stern deck, the dog raced up them and poked his head between the gallery rails, barking and snarling disobediently.

Crewmen left off their tasks, laughing at the infidel boy as he yelled at his dog.

“Come back here now! Bad dog, come here, Ned!”

The breeze halted for an instant, then it renewed; the sail slacked momentarily, then bellied forward. Under the sudden pressure, the rope’s last strands parted, and the huge sail came toppling down. It came with such a flapping and rattling of rigging that it caught the attention of every man on deck. Cracking like a whiplash end, the severed rope flew upward. Jumping through the eye of the pulley block, it snaked out and down, following the confusion of sailcloth, spar and rigging. The entire thing crashed clumsily over the bowside and began sinking into the sea.

The steersman quickly lashed the wheel steady and ran for’ard, roaring, “Foresail down! Foresail down! All hands to the fo’c’sle deck!”

The Sea Djinn began yawing in an arc to port as crewmen leapt up the fo’c’sle steps to help rescue the big foresail. Ben and Ned crouched behind a capstan on the stern deck, watching the whole thing. They saw Ghigno and Al Misurata, both still holding glasses of wine, staggering out to stand not five paces from where they lay hidden. The pirate peered blearily toward the bows.

“What’s going on up there?”

Ghigno groaned. “Looks like the foresail has broken loose!”

Al Misurata knocked the glass from the Corsair’s hand. “Well, don’t stand there, get up for’ard and see they fix it back right. And tell someone to drop the anchor, we don’t want that sail trapped under our bows. Hurry!” He watched Ghigno dash off, then shuddered as the keen breeze pierced his silken garments. Draining the goblet, he flung it into the sea and stormed back inside to the warmth of his cabin.

Ned’s paw nudged Ben. “Time to abandon ship—let’s go swimming, mate!”

They hit the water with a splash which went unnoticed in the confusion at the vessel’s other end. Ben felt himself plummeting downward into Stygian blackness with bubbles rushing by his ears. Then there was silence as he hung suspended, fathoms down in the sea’s cold, dark realms. Scenes of the Flying Dutchman, wallowing in the icy ocean off Tierra del Fuego, flashed through his mind. Screaming men, frostbitten faces, tattered rigging and groaning timbers stricken by mountainous waves. Vanderdecken lashed to the wheel as he shook clenched fists at the storm-bruised skies, damning his crew, cursing the ship and bellowing oaths at heaven, at the very Lord who had made him.

Then Ned’s urgent call cut through it all. “Ben, where are you, mate? Ben!”

Dragged back from his horrific memories, the boy struck upward for the surface, his legs and arms moving like pistons. He surfaced, gasping for air, to find himself facing the black Labrador, who was treading water alongside the rudder at the Sea Djinn’s stern. Grabbing on to a line hanging from some rope fenders, Ben allowed Ned to cling to his shoulders. They hung there, regaining breath and listening to the voices from on deck.

“Ahmed, hook that rope. Have you got it? Ali, Razul, help him. Now all together. Pull!”

It sounded like Ghigno giving the orders. Then they heard Bomba. “Look at the end of this rope—it’s been cut!”

There was a brief silence, followed by Ghigno shouting. “Where’s that brat and his hound? Where are they?”

This was followed by the sounds of running feet.

Ben sent Ned a thought. “I never allowed for this, they’re searching for us. We’d better stay put under here, they’d spot us if we tried swimming out into the open.”

Ned’s reply registered in his mind. “It’s cold here, but I’ll stick it out with you, mate. We’ll probably have to wait an hour or two, though.”

Now they heard Bomba’s voice again. “They’re not in the cabins, I’ve searched!”

Serafina’s plaintive call cut through Ben like a knife. “Ben, where are you? Ben! Ned! What have you done with them?”

Ghigno’s irate snarl followed her plea. “Done? We haven’t done anything, girl. See this mess, this whole sail, that broken spar and all that tangled rigging my crew are trying to salvage from the water? Well, they did this, I’m sure of it! I’ll skin them alive when I catch them! Go on, get back to your cabins, all of you!”

Placing Serafina behind him, Otto faced the angry Corsair. “We will stay here on deck, to make sure nothing happens to the boy and his dog!”

Ghigno sneered at the strongman. “You’ll do as I say, you big ox, unless you want to stop here and argue with musket balls. Guards!”

Al Misurata’s men hurried for’ard, carrying their long rifles.

Signore Rizzoli cautioned his troupe, “Do as he says, friends, we cannot argue with armed men!”

Treading water beneath the stern, Ben and Ned heard the alleyway door slam as the guards locked the Rizzoli Troupe away.

Al Misurata joined Bomba and Ghigno. Once he had apprised himself of the situation, he began issuing orders. “Drop anchor here, out in the bay. If they’re not aboard the ship, then they’re in the water. They won’t get far. Bomba, you see to salvaging the sail with the crew. Ghigno, spread my guards at the rails from stem to stern. We’ll fire some rockets out over the bay—give my men orders to shoot them on sight, the boy knows too much to be left alive now. Keep the others in their cabins, don’t allow them out. We’ll rig the foresail up tomorrow and sail into port. I’ll be in my cabin. Keep me informed.”

Ned peered at Ben in the darkness. “Well, there’s no going back now, mate, we’ve really done it this time. Whoo! Look at that!”

The boy backed water, pulling them both in close to the ship’s hull as the rockets were discharged. Incandescent plumes of white fire burst over the waters, illuminating everything briefly. Then they sputtered and fell hissing into the bay. More rockets went up.

Two guards, leaning over the stern gallery, sighted their long musket barrels out, sweeping them back and forth. Ben heard one speaking.

“Do you think there’ll be a reward for whoever hits them?”

His companion in arms muttered grimly, “I don’t know, but I wager there’ll be trouble if they aren’t spotted and killed.”

A voice broke in on them. It was Ghigno. “Stop gossiping and pay attention to your duties!”

One of the guards replied, “Aye, Captain, though it’s not much use lookin’ out to sea for the boy and the dog. If they were swimmin’ for it, surely they’d be headed for land?”

Ghigno nodded. “You’re right, but the master is giving the orders, we’re not here to argue. They’ll be running out of rockets soon, but he’s told me you must stay at your posts.”

The other guard spoke hopefully. “Will we be going in to land then?”

Ghigno sounded tired. “No, we’re anchoring out here. Tomorrow I’ll be taking her in, though not with all our sails. Bomba told me they only recovered half of the top spar, it broke in two when it fell. I’ll have to wait until we’re docked to have it fixed and rigged properly.”

He wandered off, leaving the two guards at the stern. Soon the rockets ceased, and they put up their rifles. Sitting on the stern deck they eased their vigilance.

Ned’s paw pressed against Ben’s shoulder. “Stay here, mate, I’ve got an idea!” The dog began paddling silently away.

Ben called to him mentally. “Ned, where are you going? I’ll come, too!”

His friend returned the thought. “No, Ben, stay put, a black dog in the sea at night is harder to spot than a boy and a black dog. I’m going to get that broken spar—it’s our only chance. Trust me!”

Ben had no other choice; he knew what Ned said was true. He clung to the fender rope, his mind harking back to a century ago.²⁴

A ship’s timber had saved their life then, when they were swept overboard from the ill-fated Flying Dutchman, into the icy seas off Tierra del Fuego. Ned had dragged him, half-conscious, onto a spar which had fallen from the vessel. They had both drifted to shore, clinging to it. Good old Ned—Ben knew with a certainty that there had never been another dog like him, before or since.

The smooth end of the spar brushed against Ben’s back as Ned’s voice took his attention. “Ahoy, shipmate, one seadog coming in on your stern!”

The boy gripped onto the rope-tangled timber. “Well done, mate. It’s a stout old piece of wood, sure enough. Are the guards still watching up there?”

The black Labrador scoffed. “Still watching? Listen, I’ve just paddled underneath their very noses and pushed this thing the length of the ship, and not one of ’em noticed. If you look up, you’ll see the legs of those two above us, dangling through the gallery rails. Not a pretty sight, I’ll grant you, but they’re both snoring!”

Ben grinned. “Good, the angel’s on our side tonight. What we’ll do is, we’ll swim out to sea a bit behind this spar, say six shiplengths away. Then we’ll strike out in a curve toward the island. If anyone is still awake and watching, they’ll be looking the other way. Right, I’m ready, are you?”

Keeping the spar between themselves and the Sea Djinn, they back-paddled away, toward the open sea. Ben was glad of the exercise—it took the numbness from his limbs. Ned gripped a rope between his teeth, doggy paddling away carefully, trying not to splash. He gave Ben the benefit of his opinion as to their progress.

“We’re doing well, the tide’s on the turn. Get a bit furtherout, then we’ll run into land on the flood, it’ll save a lot of paddling.”

Ben flicked matted hair from his eyes. “Let’s hope so, we don’t want to be caught out in open water once it’s daylight. What I wouldn’t give to be on warm, dry land right now!”

The black Labrador mused, “Me, too, mate. Hmmm, I wonder if there’s any sharks around here?”

Ben shot him a glare. “Thanks for that comforting thought!”

Al Misurata felt restless. Sleep was eluding him, so he left his cabin and went for a turn around the deck. Bomba lay snuggled beneath the stern steps. The irate pirate kicked him into wakefulness. “Fat slug, why aren’t you out on watch?”

The big slaver driver protested. “But, Master, you told me to take care of the fallen sail. I’ve had it hauled back aboard, there’s nothing can be done now until we’re in port. Ghigno was supposed to be in charge of the watch.”

He quailed under Al Misurata’s look of cold command.

“Don’t talk back to me, you bloated bazaar rat. You’ll never live to be half the man Ghigno is. Now get looking for that boy and the dog. Move yourself!”

A vicious kick sent Bomba scurrying off. Aggrieved by the harsh treatment he had received, Bomba took up a tarred rope’s end. He vented his ire upon any guards he caught sleeping on duty. The pair who were slumped against the stern rail were rudely awakened as he thwacked the knotted rope on their heads.

“Sons of she-camels, is this how you keep watch? Up, straighten up, and see to those jezzails. That boy could be splashing about under your noses for all you clods care!”

He strode off, leaving the two guards peering down their rifle barrels and grumbling resentfully.

“Huh, who does he think he is? Ghigno or the Master give us our orders, not that greasy slave driver!”

The other one agreed. “Aye, but we’d have got worse than a whack with a rope’s end if Ghigno or Al Misurata would’ve caught us napping, so keep your eyes open. Anyhow, it’s starting to get light now. Look! What’s that over there?”

The first guard followed the direction in which his companion’s finger was pointing. He lifted his musket, clicking back the flintlock as he took aim. “Let’s see, shall we?”

Ben felt the impact as the lead ball drove deep into the spar, a fraction from his index finger. “Keep down, Ned, somebody’s firing at us!”

A crack sounded out from the Sea Djinn, and another ball ploughed into the floating timber. The dog chanced a swift glance at the ship, then ducked his head.

“Surely they can’t see us from there. Maybe they’re just having a bit of target practice, to while away the time?”

A clamour broke out aboard the Sea Djinn as crewmen and guards came running to the stern, bent on discovering what the two shooters were firing at. Al Misurata and Ghigno hurried to the scene, elbowing bodies aside. The pirate confronted the two sheepish-looking guards.

“Did you see the boy and the dog, did you get them?”

One man bowed. “No, Lord, we were firing at that thing out there.”

Ghigno peered into the gathering dawn. “What, you mean that? It doesn’t look like a boy or a dog swimming round out there, does it?”

“No, Captain,” they murmured in unison.

The Corsair stood, arms akimbo, viewing them scathingly. “Well, does it?”

They shook their heads as they repeated, “No, Captain.”

Bomba, who had been watching from the sidelines, spoke out sarcastically. “That’s because it’s a piece of wood, half of the topmast spar which broke off when the sail fell.”

Al Misurata stared Bomba into silence, before turning to both guards. “So, you shot a piece of driftwood, well done! Ghigno, teach these two idiots a lesson!”

The scar-faced Corsair grabbed the rope’s end from Bomba and laid into the hapless pair. Not bothering to watch them being punished, Al Misurata turned to the steersman.

“Give the order to hoist anchor and sails, we’ll ride in on the flood. Bomba, come here!”

The big man hurried forward apprehensively.

Al Misurata pointed to the floating spar, which was a fair distance off now, and headed smoothly toward the point, to the left side of Valletta harbour.

“Just refresh my memory—that is the spar which came from this ship, is it not?”

The slave driver nodded. “Aye, Lord.”

The pirate leaned on the rail, his eyes never leaving the drifting length of timber. “Then why is it not floating alongside the ship? Why is it far away, out there?”

Bomba was stuck for an answer, so Al Misurata continued. “We can’t overtake it right now, but you take my spyglass. Stop here and watch it. As soon as it touches land let me know. You can take four guards when we make port. Hurry to where the spar is, I’d like to know how it drifted off so far and got to the island faster than my ship. Was something pushing it along?”

Recognition spread across Bomba’s face suddenly. “Lord, you mean . . .”

The pirate shook his head pityingly. “You’ll only get a headache from trying to think, idiot! Just carry out my orders. Malta is a small island, they can’t get far, you’ll see.”