Voyage of Slaves

20

IT WAS TWILIGHT OF THE FOLLOWING evening when the White Ram’s lookout spotted land. He bellowed out from the masthead, “Cape Passero, Sicily, sighted off the for’ard bow!”

Eli followed Joshua, Ben and Ned to the prow. He complained affably as Ned dropped behind to accompany him, “You young fellows are forever dashing places. Have a little respect for your elders and wait for me!”

Ned nuzzled the old man’s hand, which pleased Eli. “Ah, here is the only one aboard with any manners. Thank you, my friend.”

Ned sent him a thought, which he had no means of hearing. “Think nothing of it, sir, though you’d be surprised to know just how old I am!”

They stood gazing at the approaching coast as Ben questioned the patriarch. “So that’s Sicily? I’ve not been there before—have you, sir?”

The old man nodded. “Oh yes, I know Sicily well, Ben. It is an ancient and beautiful island that has seen much hardship through conquest and oppression. The people are a hardy race, and do not trust strangers on sight. For the most part they are good and simple folk, though a few can be very dangerous.”

Joshua tugged at his grandfather’s sleeve. “Will we be going ashore? I want to see what it’s like for myself!”

Eli stroked Ned’s head absently. “Not in Sicily—we’ll skirt the coast, past Siracusa and up to Catania, then we’ll change course for Italy. There’s a place called Melito, down at the southern tip of Calabria. Perhaps we’ll call in there to stock up on supplies. We’ll spend the better part of a day there. You’ll like Melito, I have friends there.”

Eli broke off to issue orders for the evening. “Abram, don’t take the ship in too close to shore. Post a watch for reefs and shallows, we’ll take her up the coast under half-sail for tonight.”

The trusty Abram bowed, and strode off to do his captain’s bidding.

Eli had noted Joshua’s disappointment at not being able to go ashore. His eyes twinkled as he ruffled the boy’s curls. “What would you say if I told you that we’ll roast some lamb and fish, up here on deck? We’ll sing a few songs, tell a few tales and you can stay up late, eh?”

The lad smiled happily. “Good old Grandad! I’ll go and get charcoal and lemons and olive oil. Let me be cook, you know how you like my cooking!”

As he ran off, Eli called after him, “Don’t forget my wine, it’s the only thing that soothes my digestion after your burnt offerings!” The old fellow turned to Ben, winking. “I was only joking—my Joshua inherited his cooking skills from his mother. He’s a very good cook.”

In later years, Ben would remember it as a lovely evening, drifting up the Mediterranean Sea on the calm neap tide, with a few shorelights twinkling on one side and the air still warm from the day’s heat. He and Ned sat with Eli and the crew, some of whom were playing flutes or strumming guitars. Ezekiel rigged a contrivance up over the midship rail—a grill with a charcoal fire burning beneath it, a sort of barbecue set up over the water to protect the deck from being burned. Ned pawed impatiently at Ben’s hand; as usual he was ready for food.

“Mmmmm, smell that lamb, mate, Joshua’s got it crackling well. I hope that shoulder’s for me!”

Ben could not fail to inhale the aroma: roasting meat and fish, with the sweet scent of oregano, lemon rinds, rosemary and olive oil, all cooking over the coals. He tugged Ned’s tail playfully. “Be quiet, you great walking stomach, I’m trying to listen to this song which the crew are singing.”

Actually, it was only one of the crew, a young man with a deep, rich, bass voice, who sang the verse. The rest hummed along, joining in on the chorus.

“There is a land beyond the stars, where I will be someday, but let me be all full of years, with beard so long and grey.

“O Zion! O Jordan! O Israel! O come you angel band, and let me see beyond the stars that other promised land.

“I’ll leave behind my trusty sword, my sons will bear it well, my flocks of sheep will follow still, the ram that wears the bell.

“O Zion! O Jordan! O Israel! O come you angel band, and let me see beyond the stars that other promised land.

“I’ll leave behind grandchildren, like grapes upon the vine, and daughters fair to say in prayer,

This is our father’s wine.

“O Zion! O Jordan! O Israel! O come you angel band, and let me see beyond the stars that other promised land.”

Joshua turned from the meal he was tending and called out, “Sing a song for us, Ben, do you know any good ones?”

The crew began cheering and encouraging Ben, but Eli called for silence.

“Let Benjamin be, perhaps he does not want to sing.”

Ben thanked the old man, then stood up to speak. “I have a dreadful voice, and Ned’s is no better. But I will show you some magic, performed by the Mysterious Benno and the Magnificent Neddo.”

As he spoke, Ben caught an indignant thought from his dog. “Well, thank you very much for asking me did I want to be a magician again. Hmph! It would be good if I were allowed to make a few decisions for this team now and again. Pray tell, what’ll you do if I don’t feel like performing the act?”

Ben sent the black Labrador a ready reply. “Oh that’s easy, I’ll tell them you don’t want any food, that you just want to go to our cabin and sleep, and that your real name is Bundi!”

Ned leaped upright smartly, trying to appear casual. “Oh well, just this once, but in future, would you please consult me first? And one other thing—don’t ever dare to refer to me by that dreadful name again!”

Ben took Ned’s head in both hands, staring into his eyes. “I’m sorry, mate, it was thoughtless of me not to ask you. I apologise. Of course I’d never mention that name to a living soul, ever!”

Ned treated him to a doggy grin. “Well, what are you waiting for, ask them for a blindfold and tell them to have their trinkets and objects ready!”

Eli, his grandson and the entire crew were astonished at Ben and Ned’s act. Joshua immediately professed a desire to become a magician, just like his friend Ben.

Then the food was ready. They had a glorious late meal, sitting there on the deck, laughing and talking and congratulating the boy and his dog who had entertained them so well. The evening wore on, and whilst the men continued talking, Ben, Ned and Joshua curled up on some rope-matted fenders and dozed.

Surrounded by such safety and happiness, Ben was not expecting what happened next. Straight out of his dreams, the ghostly apparition of Captain Vanderdecken appeared, grinning evilly.

It was so sudden that Ben sat straight up, wide awake. Beside him, Joshua slumbered on, but Ned was up, teeth bared, and hackles rising. He shot Ben a thought. “Did you see that, too, mate? What’s it all about?”

The boy glanced around. However, nothing had changed—Eli and his crew were still gossiping idly, whilst two flutes played a quiet duet in the background. He shook his head at the dog.

“I don’t know, but whenever the Dutchman shows up, it usually means trouble, or danger nearby. You check for’ard, Ned, I’ll check aft!”

Ned was halfway to the fo’c’sle deck, when he peered off amidships to port. He hurried back to Ben. “Come and have a look at this, see what you think.”

Before they had reached the midship rail, Ben glanced to the other side. He alerted Ned. “Look, three big rowing boats curving about to come astern of us. I don’t like it, they’re not showing either sail or light. It looks like they’re stalking us.”

Ned answered mentally. “Aye, just like the three I spied on our other side. Better tell Eli straightaway!”

The old man came to the stern, with Abram and Zachary on either side of him. He watched the six boats moving stealthily in their wake before murmuring quietly to Ben, “You were very alert, Benjamin, thank you.”

Remembering his dog’s previous complaints, Ben answered, “Don’t thank me, sir, it was Ned who saw them first.”

Ned put his head against Ben’s leg. “Thanks, mate, it’s nice to get credit where it’s due.” He cut short the thought as Eli continued.

“There’s no doubt that those men are wreckers. Skulking along behind us without showing sails or lights, I see they have muffled their oars, too, eh, Abram?”

The trusty crewman nodded. “They’re dropping back a bit, now that they know we’ve sighted them. Shall I go below and man the stern cannon?”

The patriarch stroked his beard, his keen gaze still riveted on the six boats. “I think not. Stay here with me, Abram. Wholesale slaughter is not the answer. I know those men are ruffians and villains, but they are only peasants with families to feed. I could not bring myself to kill them. So if needs be I will take the snake’s head.”

Ben understood the old man’s meaning. “You mean that you will slay their leader, sir?”

Eli bowed his head at the boy. “Ah, you understand my plan, very good. However, I will only take a life as the last resort—the House of Shimon breeds warriors, not murderers. First I will talk with their chief. Abram, bring me a light.”

Holding up the lantern with which Abram had provided him, Eli whispered an order to Zachary, who stole off to do his bidding. The old man then raised his voice, shouting to the small flotilla of boats, “Who is your chieftain, I would speak with him!”

The foremost of the boats was rowed forward until it stood about ten yards off the White Ram’s stern. The False Padre, Marlanese, ignited a torch of reeds and stood in the rowboat’s bows.

Ned’s assessment reached Ben. “Hah! There’s a real villain if ever I saw one! How anyone could trust that rascal I’ll never know. Look at that ragged cassock and his big greasy hat—he could be mistaken for a poison toad in disguise!”

Ben stroked his dog’s ear. “A perfect description, mate. Hush now, let’s hear what he has to say.”

Eli spoke sternly to Marlanese. “Who are you, and why are you stalking us?”

The False Padre took off his hat, revealing a pale, bald dome, with lank strands of greying hair plastered across it. He smiled unctuously. “Sir, you mistake our intentions. We are not stalking your fine ship, merely following a custom of this coast. I am Padre Umberto, and these men are my parishioners. We wish to visit your ship, so that I can bestow on it a special blessing. We will come aboard with your permission.”

Eli folded both arms across his chest. He looked for all the world like some biblical prophet straight from the pages of the Old Testament.

“Blasphemer! You are no holy man, you are a wrecker, with murder and plunder in your heart. Begone—I warn you!”

The fat, little scoundrel turned ugly then. He spat into the water, drawing back his threadbare cape to reveal a sword and musket thrust into his belt.

“No man talks to Marlanese like that! Listen, old fool, you are in my waters now, trespassing on my coast. Now let me aboard, or it will go badly for you!”

Eli stood firm, pointing at the wrecker. “Go quickly, before you stir my wrath!”

The False Padre drew his sword, quivering with rage. “Wrath? I’ll show you wrath. I’ll gut you and hang you from your own yardarm by the feet. Attack!”

As the boats pulled forward to charge the ship, Zachary came hurrying up. He was carrying Eli’s big bow, the one made from ram’s horn. With it was a single arrow, its heavy, barbed point wrapped with oil-soaked cloth, which he passed to the old man. Eli thrust the shaft into the lantern, drawing it forth spurting flame. In a few swift movements he set it upon the bowstring and hauled back mightily as he took aim and let fly.

The wrecker did not even have time to scream. The arrow pierced his throat, the burning cloth falling loose to send his cassock and cloak up in flames. He fell back into the boat with his clothing aflame as his crew gasped at the rapidity of Eli Bar Shimon’s action.

The patriarch held up his bow, calling out in a voice like thunder to the wrecking crews, “We are warriors, not fools like your leader. Look to my ship and see what awaits you if you stay here!”

Zachary had given orders to the crew below decks. They ran out the six cannon to port and starboard, firing off a broadside. The explosion deafened the wreckers, and lit up the night with its force.

Ben and Ned stood on either side of Eli, wreathed in smoke, watching the six boats splashing off like pond beetles pursued by pike. There was a hiss and a sizzle as the last boat crew tossed the burning body of Marlanese into the sea.

Joshua came dashing up from where Ezekiel had been restraining him on the for’ard deck. “Grandfather, Ben, what’s going on?”

Ben threw an arm around the lad’s shoulders. “Your grandfather has just been dispensing a bit of justice to some ruffians who wanted his ship.”

The old man smiled at the two boys. “It worked well. Remember what I told you, Benjamin?”

Ben returned the smile. “Aye, sir, cut off the snake’s head. Of course you forgot to say—and the rest of its body is useless.”

Eli winked at Ben. “But you already knew that!”

Ned was wagging his tail furiously whilst sending out thoughts. “That old Eli’s as good as a one-man army. I’m glad he’s on our side, mate. Whew, that excitement has given me an appetite. I wonder if there’s any of that good food left?”

Ben spoke aloud to the dog. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough to eat for one evening, old hunger guts?”

Joshua stroked the black Labrador’s back fondly. “I’ll get you some food if you’re still hungry, Ned. Come on, boy, there’s plenty left.”

They galloped off together. Eli looked curiously at Ben. “How did you know your dog was hungry?”

The strange boy shrugged. “Oh, Ned, he can say more with his tail and eyes than some people can with their tongues, sir.”

The old man looked as if he only half-believed Ben. “Yes, I’m sure he could. I feel a bit peckish myself now, what about you, young fellow?”

Ben flicked a tawny-coloured lick of hair from his eyes. “Oh, I imagine I could manage a bite.”

The patriarch chuckled. “You’ve got a good imagination. We’d best hurry before those two clean it all up!”

Next morning the wind had changed, though it was still a bright, blustery day. The Sea Djinn had to tack and veer to come offshore of Cape Passero. Ghigno and Bomba took a ship’s boat and rowed ashore, to where the six wrecking boats had been hauled up beyond the tideline. As he waded hurriedly through the surf, Ghigno was already sensing that something was amiss. Making his way to a collection of rickety hovels, the scar-faced Corsair strode into the first one. A stick-like old woman was tending a small fire, over which an iron cauldron was simmering.

With his eyes smarting from the smoky atmosphere, Ghigno crouched by the old woman and made enquiries. “Where is my cousin Marlanese?”

The crone uttered one word. “Morte!”³⁰

The Corsair’s jaw tightened. Apart from that he showed no emotion, but continued his interrogation. “And the rest, where are they?”

The old woman nodded in the direction of the other shacks. “Some are in the big hut, others have gone back to their villages.”

Ghigno thrust his face close to hers. “What happened?”

She shrugged. “I was not there, ask them.”

Ghigno stood swiftly. “I will!”

There were about a score of men in the largest dwelling, lounging around a fire and passing jugs of red wine back and forth. They were holding a murmured conversation, which ceased the moment that Ghigno walked in. A sullen silence prevailed. Then one big, rough-looking villain stood up to face the intruder.

Ghigno spoke, almost casually. “I have just heard the padre is dead. Who killed him?”

The rough-looking man drew a long knife from his belt and ran it through his scruffy red beard, as if grooming it. His tone was bold and challenging. “Marlanese is dead, let that be an end to it!”

In the enclosed space, the musket report sounded like a small cannon. The redbeard collapsed beside the fire, with a hole between his eyes and a shocked look on his face. Ghigno coolly blew down the musket barrel as he drew another one, already cocked and loaded, from the back of his sash. His voice still casual, he spoke as he placed the gun against the forehead of the man sitting nearest to him. “How do they call you?”

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed visibly as he answered. “Beppino of Montalto. I have a wife and four children, signore. . . .”

Ghigno cut him short. “If you wish to see them again then answer me truly, Beppino. How was my cousin slain?”

Beppino closed his eyes tight as the musket pressed hard against his brow. “It was the old one, the master of the White Ram. We were not told that it was heavily armed. They saw us coming up on the vessel, the old capitano ordered your cousin not to come further. Marlanese would not listen, so the old one shot him with a fire arrow. They fired cannon at us, that ship carries many cannon. We were forced to retreat, or they would have blasted us out of the sea, signore. We were not told they were fighters with a heavily armed ship.”

Bomba had been holding the boat in the surf. He watched Ghigno climb in. “What happened, did you fire that shot?”

The scar made the Corsair’s face wrinkle wickedly as he hissed at Bomba, “What business is it of yours? Get me back to the ship!”

Al Misurata listened to Ghigno’s report. He sat in silence for a moment, then nodded, showing neither disappointment nor temper. He strode out on deck, followed by Ghigno, to whom he issued rapid orders. “Put on all sail, head into deeper water, but keep the coast in sight. Steer a course for the Italian mainland, and post lookouts. Let me know the moment that ship is sighted. Get those performers off the deck and back into their accommodation!”

As they were being herded back into their cabin, Serafina, who had caught Al Misurata’s orders, confided to Mamma, “We’re not landing at all in Sicily, we’re going to Italy. I heard Al Misurata saying so.”

Mamma raised her eyes thankfully. “I’m grateful for it. This idea of making a break and escaping, I’ve never liked it. There’s too many of them, some of us could be hurt, or even killed.”

Her husband shook his head. “If we make a landfall in Italy, we must still try to escape. Right, Otto?”

The strongman had taken the blunderbuss from its hiding place. He continued working on it.

“Ja, right, mein Herr. I would sooner be dead than live as the slave of another. Escape is our only hope!”

La Lindi watched the big German oiling the trigger mechanism. “That goes for me also!”

Mummo nudged Buffo. “What would you sooner be, a slave or a dead man?”

Buffo scratched his head, as if thinking hard. “Well, I wouldn’t mind being a slave, as long as I was sold to a young, pretty woman. But on the other hand, being dead might have some advantages. Dead men don’t have to get up early, or work, or feel hungry. Yowch!”

Signore Rizzoli withdrew his foot from the clown’s rump. “What are you saying, muddlehead? Dead men cannot breathe the air of freedom, they cannot laugh or move. Besides, what pretty young woman would buy a thick-headed buffoon like you, eh?”

Buffo put on a mournful face. Serafina laughed and hugged him.

“I would if I had the price, he’d make a lovely slave!”

Buffo fell on his knees in front of her. “Then I’ll save all my money and give it to you, so you can buy me. But I’ve always been your slave, O Beautiful One, from the moment I set eyes on you!”

Mummo hung his head in mock despair. “You mean you’d break up our act? Traitor!”

Serafina hugged him, too. “I’ll buy you both. When I’m a rich girl, I’ll need two slaves!”

Otto drew the hammer back and clicked it. “There’ll be no slave trading done once I’ve got this gun fixed!”