20 The Walcott lay docked in the port of Liverpool. It was early morning, and a fog had rolled in. Soon she was shrouded in mist. Liverpool was a military port and British naval vessels came and went in a steady stream. Because they possessed the world’s greatest navy, the British prided themselves on both the quality and abundance of their warships. Liverpool was the city where the vast majority of their ships were built, and her inhabitants were some of the finest craftsmen in the world.
Charles Owen walked down a dock with three other sailors. He wore a black pea coat with the collar pulled up around his ears and a gray wool hat on his head. A tan scarf was wrapped around his neck and tucked inside his coat, so that only a small portion of his face was visible. Both hands were in his pockets and he kept his head down.
On their way down the dock, they passed two guards, who didn’t even give them a cursory glance. Charles and the sailors continued down the dock and up into the Liverpool streets. The fog had rolled in and the city’s brick buildings were mostly obscured by the thick mist. Puddles splashed under their shoes as they walked quickly away from the port and into the heart of the city.
After several blocks, they came to a small house built of red brick. It was a pleasant-looking house with a green door and white windowsills. A small apple tree grew just outside.
Just after young Seaman Terry knocked on the door, they heard footsteps approaching the door. They saw a woman of about fifty peer through lace curtains on a small window in the door. Her face was plump and her hair was starting to gray. The moment she saw Terry, she gasped and the door flew open. The woman threw her arms around Terry and hugged him tightly.
“Hello, Mum,” he said with a smile. His mother grabbed her son’s face, kissing both his cheeks. By this time, tears rolled down her face as she embraced him.
“Who is it, dear?” came from somewhere in the house.
“It’s your son come back from the sea,” she called out. Soon more footsteps could be heard, until a small and skinny man, with an almost bald head, came to the door. A huge smile appeared on his face at the sight of his son.
“Hello, Dad,” Terry said. He embraced his father and then firmly shook his hand.
“Come in, come in,” his mother urged and soon Charles and the rest of the soldiers were inside the house and sitting in the dining room.
“So you must introduce us to your friends,” his mother asked, as she quickly prepared a pot of tea and began warming up fresh scones, sausages, beans, and hard-boiled eggs.
“This ’ere is Colonel Charles Owen. We’ve got to get him to London,” Terry explained. At this, both his mother and his father stopped what they were doing and stared at Charles.
“The Charles Owen?” his father asked.
“Yes, sir,” Charles answered and blushed a bit.
“Why, you’re the most wanted man in Britain. Steven, what are you doing with this man? Do you know what he’s done?” his father asked with more than a little bristle in his voice.
“It’s all lies, Dad. Colonel Owen is innocent and was just doing his duty. Our commander, Dreyfuss, is the proper villain…that is, until the Colonel ’ere did him in with a sword.”
“What do you mean he’s innocent? What’s this about ‘doing in’ Dreyfuss?” his father asked, still very defensive about having the notorious Charles Owen in his house.
“Dreyfuss was pillaging and murdering under orders. The Colonel just tried to stop him and was blamed for all the looting and pirating that’s been happening. It’s all lies. Me and the boys are going to testify in Colonel Owen’s defense.”
His father continued to look disdainfully at Charles as his son continued, “Dad, I’m ashamed of what I did, as are the other lads. Being out at sea, marauding with the Union Jack flying on our mast, it made me ashamed to be an Englishman. Colonel Owen is giving us our dignity back.”
His father instantly understood that his son had been through some terrible experiences. His face softened, and looking at Charles, he gave him a small nod of his head. Without saying a word, he stepped over to Charles, patted him on the shoulder, and sat down. The gesture was understood by all—Charles was forgiven.
His mother sat down with the men at the dining room table.
“A conspiracy!” she whispered and her face seemed to light up.
“Oh no, dear—you with your conspiracy theories. Here we go again!” her husband stood up and took over making the tea.
“Innocent all along, you say?” she asked and looked at Charles.
“You should be very proud of your son, Mr. and Mrs. Terry. He showed a great amount of bravery, and in truth, he’s the only reason I am alive,” Charles explained and Mrs. Terry beamed as she looked at her son.
“Not soon enough,” young Steven muttered under his breath.
“The world isn’t as simple as you thought, eh?” his father said from the kitchen, where he had been preparing the portions of food he now brought to the table.
“Well, good. You should learn now rather than later. There’s always a door behind the door; you know what I’m saying,” Mr. Terry was now addressing Charles.
“Indeed, I do,” he answered.
“Here, eat, eat! We have some lovely strawberry jam, and the sausages are fresh. You must all be starving,” Mrs. Terry said and urged the men to eat.
“Indeed we are, thank you,” Charles answered. Soon everyone was shoveling food in their mouths and going back for seconds.
After breakfast, the party retreated to the back garden and sat around a wooden table. It was still cold outside, but the fresh air felt good, and more tea was served.
“So what are your plans, Colonel Owen?” Mr. Terry asked.
“To make my way back to my family in London and try to clear my name. The testimony of your son and these fine cadets will certainly help my cause.”
“It’s not always easy to do the right thing, but we’re proud of you, son,” Mr. Terry said, causing young Terry to blush.
Just then, Mrs. Terry’s face showed a look of complete shock and worry.
“I just thought of something,” she said and hurried inside, returning with yesterday’s paper. She unfolded a couple of pages and then showed it to Charles.
The headline read, “Louise Owen to be tried as traitor.”
Charles quickly read the story. It was all about Louise and how she had broken into the Far Indian Trading Company offices. She was being tried as a coconspirator to her husband. If convicted, she would be given the death penalty.
Charles read the story twice more, and it was easy to see how upset it made him.
“She’s to go to court tomorrow. They’re trying for a quick trial,” he mentioned as he continued to scan the article—as if he might possibly have missed something. His thoughts went to his poor wife and his son, David, who, the article said, was being held by Social Services.
Charles sat back in his chair. The color had drained from his face, and he looked as if he had aged ten years in the two minutes it took him to read that article.
“I’ve got to get to London,” he said.
“Two steps ahead of you, colonel. I’ll get the wagon hitched and we’ll be there by morning,” Mr. Terry said and stood up.
Charles looked at Terry and the other soldiers.
“Boys, I don’t know how this is going to go. I can’t ask you to do something that might jeopardize your futures. There are powerful forces lined up against me right now.”
Terry and the other soldiers stood up.
“Sir, we’ve been doing some pretty awful things now under Lieutenant Dreyfuss. Things that make us feel horrible. Things that make us stay up at night. Clearing your name—it’s the one right thing we have to do. The boys all agreed on that,” Terry answered and the other soldiers agreed with him.
Charles put his hand on Terry’s shoulder.
“You make the British navy proud,” he said and shook the hands of the other boys.
“C’mon lads, London is calling!” Mr. Terry yelled, and soon the boys had boarded the wagon and were being led through the streets of Liverpool by the two horses in front. Charles kept his head down and his collar pulled up, and he crouched down low in the back to keep from being seen. Terry sat up front with his father, and the rest of the lads rode in the back of the wagon with Charles.
Back in her cell, Louise looked considerably worse for wear. It was very cold in the jail and she’d caught a bit of flu. Her clothes were tattered and dirty, and she had already lost five pounds from the pitiful portions of gruel and soup she was fed just once a day. Her cheeks were sunken and her hair was greasy from not having bathed in over a week.
She had met with both her barrister and Matthew Hatrider, but neither of them could provide much help. The charges against her were thin, at best. They didn’t have any real proof that Louise had broken into the Far Indian offices, and they didn’t have any proof at all that she was conspiring with Charles. It was obvious someone very powerful wanted to discredit Louise and to see her behind bars.
They needed to know if the judge would be corrupt or honest. If corrupt and pocketing bribes, then there was no hope for Louise. She would be tried as a traitor and hanged. If the judge was honest, then she might be set free, but her reputation would still be ruined. They just had to wait and see.
Louise had settled into jail life as best she could. She tried not to think of David and just hoped he was coping. She took to teaching some of the girls to read and write, and they played marathon games of cooncan—a card game that was currently all the rage. Mostly, she was just bored and passed the time staring at water dripping from the ceiling or observing the many rats and mice that frequented their cell.
Trying not to give up hope, she wondered if there was anything she could do to proclaim her innocence, but she could think of nothing.
Louise was trapped—and at the mercy of a corrupt justice system. Her court date the following day would determine her fate, and quite possibly, this ordeal would end with her hanging from a noose.
Lionel Hedgecock, president of the Far Indian Trading Company, sat across from Roy Ferguson, admiral in the British navy, and sipped on his glass of scotch. They were both seated in fat leather chairs and their bodies sunk into the down-filled cushions.
“So this Owen woman has been taken care of?” Ferguson asked.
“Yes, but she still maintains the ledger was lost in the Thames.”
“That ledger could be the ruin of us. You’re sure she doesn’t have it?” the admiral asked.
“We’ve taken her family from her. Next is her house, and she’s about to be tried as a traitor and hanged. It seems to me if she actually had the ledger, she would have handed it over by now.”
Admiral Ferguson sipped on his glass of scotch, but he was still very concerned. He hadn’t heard from Dreyfuss in over a month, and now there was this mess with Louise Owen. Some of the others in the navy were starting to inquire about Dreyfuss.
Lionel Hedgecock reached over and gave him a very full envelope. Ferguson opened it, and it was full of cash—the latest in a series of payments.
“Don’t worry, Roy. This Owen woman doesn’t have a case or any proof against us. It’s her word against ours, and she is the wife of the most notorious criminal in England. Anything she says will be taken as a lie. We’re making a handsome profit from our arrangement and we’ll continue to profit handsomely. Wars have been started over money—the Boer War wasn’t about anything other than diamonds being found in South Africa! What we’re doing has been done since the dawn of time. So relax,” Hedgecock told him. He could see that the admiral was nervous and worried.
Lionel Hedgecock wasn’t nervous. He didn’t get nervous. He had spent his entire life privileged and he had always gotten everything he had wanted. This Owen woman was a nuisance and nothing more.
He would squash her like he squashed everyone else who got in his way.
Caid Ali Tamzali led his army over the plains of Morocco. He rode in the rear on an enormous war camel, with the Black Mamba by his side on another. The Caid sat lazily to the side, with an umbrella hitched to the back of the camel that provided much-needed shade. A fine leather saddle was beneath him, and he sat on a thick cotton pillow to make his ride more comfortable. The camel was outfitted with actual leather armor that protected both its belly and front side. The saddle was adorned with a collage of colors in intricately sewed beads and glass buttons.
War camels were the largest and most aggressive of the pack and were bred to be especially brave in the face of battle. Each camel took years to train for battle, and today, as on all days in the battlefield, the Caid only rode the best of the best.
Just ahead of them, tens of thousands of soldiers marched in formation. Rows and rows of troops were dressed in fine military uniforms with modern rifles slung over their shoulders. A cavalry of almost one thousand rode camels, and other soldiers had mounted five Gatling machine guns on wagons that could be easily moved and positioned on the battlefield. Dozens of supply wagons picked up the rear.
The army marched over the dirt and clay, heading toward their destination—the city of Marrakesh. Once Marrakesh fell, and the Sultan had been killed, the Caid would rule Morocco. The Mamba was already preparing to march on Algeria and then on Egypt. Together, they could rule over Northern Africa, its people under their control.
Jawad rode a camel in front of them both. He had been given his own squadron of fifty riders to command, and he had done so with the brutality he learned at the hands of the Mamba. He watched them and berated them for even the smallest of mistakes. Jawad had driven fear into them so deeply, his troops feared him as much as they feared the Mamba.
The army marched over a hill until the soldiers in front suddenly stopped. The entire procession halted in back of them. A signal was given for the Caid to ride to the front.
“Follow me,” he ordered the Mamba, and together they rode to the front of their giant army.
As they rode up a hill, they were unable to see what awaited them on the other side. It wasn’t until they arrived at the front line that they could they see why the soldiers had stopped.
In front of them, spread out over the plains, was an army. Soldiers of every ethnicity stared back at them. Men, women, and even children stood ready to fight them.
Sanaa and Zijuan were on horses in the center, with their army surrounding them. They were joined by Moussa Ag Arshaman, the leader of the Tuareg people, and many leaders of other tribes. Malik was in the rear, and a soldier stood next to him whose job was to describe what was happening in the battle so Malik could help issue orders.
Although he was blind, Malik would not miss this battle for anything in the world.
Sanaa, dressed completely in black with her long hair blowing in the wind, held a rifle in her hand and a sword sheathed at her side. Zijuan was also dressed in black, except for a blue scarf that covered her neck. A saber was slung across her back, and she held a rifle in her right hand.
Around them, thousands of tribesmen and women stared at the Caid’s army spread out before them, separated by only a quarter of mile of earth. Banners flew in the wind from the tribes—physical representations of their people and their culture that served as an affront to the Caid and his flag, whose colors represented the blanket of tyranny that reigned over them for an eternity. The faces on the tribespeople were cold and blank, as if every atrocity and tragedy they’d been subjected to over the decades had been etched and worn on their skin for all to witness. Their muscles flexed with anticipation, and their fists gripped their swords, rifles, and lances as though each weapon was an extension of themselves. They were beyond being afraid, or hesitant, or even logical about the battle in front of them. Everyone wanted to taste blood, and to release their angst and their misery and their oppression upon their enemies. The Caid’s army was bigger, but it didn’t matter an ounce. The tribes were desperate, and they knew they must defeat the Caid to win back their freedom and live out their lives in peace.
The Caid and the Mamba stared at the army in front of them. Yes, they had heard the rumors that an army was forming in the mountains, but they had never expected to meet them on this march. The truth was, they were unprepared for such a show of force. The sheer size of the army in front of them came as a shock.
“Prepare the cavalry,” the Mamba ordered.
The Caid wisely allowed the Mamba to issue orders when it came to war. The Mamba’s military expertise outweighed even his own.
Soon, the entire cavalry of camels and horses were in position at the front. The cavalry lined up across the plain for two hundred yards in columns ten thick. The camel riders rocked nervously in their saddles, with rifles in their hands, and sat staring at the army facing them.
Seeing this, Zijuan also ordered the cavalry to the front. Soon, a smaller contingent of horses and camels were positioned to face off against the Caid.
The Mamba could see the outline of Sanaa’s body in the distance, and his anger only grew. It was true! She had lived and was now leading a force against his own army. He stared at the tribal army facing him and his muscles flexed with anticipation.
He would slaughter these people, and once and for all, completely squash these rebels and their filth.
Staring at Sanaa, he wanted one thing.
To see her dead.
The two armies stared at one another for a full minute. The Mamba waited for the Caid, who had drawn his own sword in preparation for battle.
“Attack!” the Caid yelled.
“Attack!” Zijuan yelled.
The two armies, each with their cavalry at the front, immediately charged towards one another. Instantly the ground was a sea of dust as the camel riders ran in full stride directly at the other.
Thousands upon thousands of soldiers charged at one another. First they rode on sweaty horses with drawn swords, screeching at the enemy, and then they continued on foot by the thousands, arms raised—every soldier ready to drive straight through their enemy’s army. They charged like this for less than a minute, until at last they met face-to-face, colliding with one another like two bighorn sheep. Both armies were full of adrenaline and vigor and the battlefield soon became a canvas of dust, sweat, clanging steel, iron, and blood.
Melbourne Jack, Tariq, Aseem, Fez, and a host of other warriors had worked nonstop for a straight week, even through the nights, to complete the project at hand.
They needed an edge against the Caid, to turn the tide against their superior forces and weaponry—something he would never expect. Melbourne Jack had offered a suggestion weeks ago, and Malik had readily agreed to it, even though he thought it would be impossible to carry out.
Jack had built an air force—a fleet of hot air balloons.
Using material from the sailboat sails, spools of rope, planks of wood, and kerosene for fuel, he and the others had constructed exactly forty-four miniature hot air balloons. Most were only big enough to carry two soldiers: one to navigate and one to attack the Caid’s army from the skies.
Using a mixture of water, sulfur, and limestone, they constructed rudimentary bombs to drop on the Caid’s forces that would not only disrupt his army, but would also explode into a cloud of tear gas on impact. The group called them “blinders.”
By calculating the wind speed and analyzing weather patterns, Jack had located the exact spot to launch the balloons that would place them directly over the Caid’s army. Every detail of that day—Zijuan’s position with the ground troops and exactly where they would meet the Caid’s army—was planned down to the minute in order allow Jack to launch his aerial attack at just the right time from the ideal location.
All of Jack’s balloon navigators were completely inexperienced, so it would be with a hope and a prayer that they would really be able to position themselves directly above the Caid’s army. Jack had personally selected every one of the navigators and had spent hours and hours teaching them how to fly the balloons—but they still had little time actually flying them on their own. By attaching a one hundred-foot-long rope to one of the baskets and allowing the balloon to rise up in the air, Jack had been able to take his navigators up for small rides to give them an idea of what to expect. They couldn’t risk having the balloons go up too high, as the Caid’s scouts might spot them. Despite their inexperience, their basic training had really helped the soldiers understand how to maneuver a balloon, and each navigator felt fairly comfortable.
Jack had purposely made one of the balloons much larger than the rest—he would navigate that one.
The balloons stood at the ready as their navigators and bombardiers prepared all the materials and weaponry and began to inflate the balloons with hot air. Soon, the entire expedition was ready to launch. As the balloons slowly inflated, they were hitched to the ground with secure lines tied to stakes in the ground.
Jack found Tariq, Aseem, and Fez and told them it was time for the launch.
He had asked them to be his crew in his balloon. They worked well together and they were all small, so there would be much more room to move around inside the basket.
Azmiya stood next to some elders and children who would not be joining the battle. She had settled in nicely with the tribe and, as Tariq knew they would, the tribe had accepted her as one of their own. Malik and Sanaa had promised to look after her. Malik had even started teaching her the basics of combat and martial arts, and Azmiya greatly enjoyed his lessons. It was a welcome break for Malik, as he had been extremely busy organizing the army and strategizing for the battle.
Now, however, Azmiya’s face was flush with worry watching Tariq prepare to fly off in that balloon to fight the Caid. To her, it all looked very dangerous. The balloons seemed like death traps as they launched into the air—they could plunge down to earth at any moment!
Tariq came up to her, but he didn’t know what to say. He had spent time with her over the past week, but it hadn’t been much time, as he had been busy preparing his balloon. Still, she was constantly on his mind and he often found himself glancing over his shoulder to make sure she was safe. Many times, their eyes met and they shared an awkward smile.
Azmiya, looking into Tariq’s eyes, began to cry and rushed to hug him. Tariq, embarrassed, returned her embrace. Azmiya then felt herself kiss him on each cheek and then on the lips. It was a very small kiss, as their lips barely brushed, but Tariq felt electricity surge through his entire body. It was his first kiss, as it was hers. Azmiya quickly stepped back, a little embarrassed at such a display of affection.
Tariq walked away, but then gave one last glance to Azmiya, who was wiping away her tears.
Turning his back, he rushed to the basket with Jack, Fez, and Aseem, and soon they lifted off the ground. Tariq threw out some sandbags and the balloon slowly lifted higher into the sky. He waved goodbye to Azmiya, who waved back.
In the basket, Aseem and Fez were smiling at Tariq.
“Look who has a girlfriend, Fez. Our little lover boy over here,” Aseem teased, which even made Jack grin a bit.
Tariq couldn’t say anything in his own defense, so he just blushed and smiled awkwardly.
The balloon lifted higher off the ground and soon they were surrounded by dozens of other balloons. Jack led the charge and directed the other navigators to follow his lead to determine when to elevate and when to descend.
The balloons were colored every shade of red, blue, yellow, and orange. To many tribesmen, white meant the color of death or surrender, so they avoided it at all costs. The colors of their clan were sacred to each warrior, and flying their clan’s colors in battle was considered an honor. As a result, the squadron of balloons resembled a splattering of paint drops across a light blue canvas. It was a beautiful sight to behold. On the ground below, many farmers and villagers rushed out, pointing at the balloons flying overhead. None of these people had ever seen a hot air balloon before, much less an entire squadron of them.
Over the horizon they drifted, with some of the navigators drifting below, and others flying higher, up into the white clouds. The wind was moderate and their speed was about twelve knots, which meant they would be directly above the Caid’s army in only twenty minutes’ time. Many of the bombardiers and navigators were smiling in amazement, as they had never been this high in the air. Others had terrified looks on their faces, as being this high up was a most new and discomforting experience.