FIFTEEN

WILHELM VISSER LAY IN HIS CELL LOOKING AT THE STARS AND WONdering, for the hundredth time or more, whether by some chance his sons could see the very same stars. It brought him comfort to think Caleb or Alwin were looking up, wondering how their father was doing, though in truth their father wasn’t doing very well.

The old man’s body ached terribly at the end of the day unloading ships, and his was considered light labor compared to what the other slaves did daily. The sun was relentless as always, and sores had developed on his arms and head that scabbed over and then bled and scabbed over again.

The elder Visser was a simple man who had always preached tolerance and pragmatism to his sons, and the twin pillars of his philosophy bore him up now. In fact, he bore no malice to his masters; they were human as he was. They could be wicked and cruel, to be sure, but all men could. The pragmatic view was to abide his situation as best he could, make the best of a very bad thing, and live to see tomorrow.

As he lay looking at the stars, the thought struck him that the rational, pragmatic thing for his sons to do was to continue on with their lives and refuse the temptation to try to free him. Lord knew they had enough to worry about just to survive the cod market. Whatever the pasha was demanding was too much for an old man who was not far from death, at any rate. He hoped and prayed his boys would see the situation as he did and he did his best to communicate his wishes to the stars, and thus to them.

Zabana entered the palace of the dey of Algiers, Mustapha Pasha, confi-dent that he would be given an important assignment. After all, his corsair navy virtually ruled the Mediterranean and no merchant ship escaped his notice. He was shown into the Audience Hall, a long and magnificent colonnade with alabaster columns and intricate inlaid tile. Torches and candles set the hall ablaze with light, and a faint breeze wafted the smoke out the windows.

At the end of the hall the dey sat on a golden cushion, looking every inch the potentate. His thick beard seemed to cover much of his face and gave him a deeply sinister look calculated to terrify. He was dressed in flowing satin robes which disguised his considerable bulk.

Mustapha Pasha was appointed by Ottoman decree ruler for life. He was a master of intrigue, staying in power in the shifting political winds of the Ottoman Empire by pitting his enemies against one another, his friends against his enemies, and exerting control over whomever was left over. He received visitors in the Audience Hall under a painting he had commissioned showing him standing regally in robes and turban, his hand on the hilt of his sword, the severed heads of his enemies on the floor around him. If it was designed to strike fear into those who came before him it was inordinately effective.

All of Mustapha’s political machinations were driven by a relentless greed for the sake of greed, for he already had more wealth than any of the deys who preceded him, a large harem of wives and concubines and countless servants and sycophants. Each week his income was reported to him by the Collector of Tributes and was mostly based on the activities of his corsairs against Mediterranean shipping.

Zabana led those corsairs and, after Mustapha, was the most powerful and cunning man in the regency of Algiers. Their relationship was mutually beneficial, but wary. It showed in the way the men looked at each other, their eyes dark and cold and suspicious.

“Zabana Reis,” said the dey, addressing him as captain, “the tribute from the United States is late, as it always is, and when it arrives it will disappoint me, as it always does. Meanwhile, your corsairs take fewer prizes, American or otherwise, and that disappoints me, as well. I am disappointed, Zabana Reis, and growing poorer by the day.”

Zabana said nothing, but anger flushed his face red.

“It is possible for a man to be too comfortable in his own house,” said the dey, “tending his little garden every day, and never looking over his wall to the next world. I know this to be true. I hope you are not that man, Zabana Reis.” The dey paused here to let the effect of his words sink in. “I think it is time to leave your garden.”

The dey’s words were not lost on Zabana. It was true that captures had fallen off, but most countries paid tribute and were safe, and the American merchants were wary of sailing to the Mediterranean. He was not to blame for that, except that he had taken so many ships already. Truth be told, he had also grown comfortable on land; his mistress found amusing ways to satisfy him.

“The British have not agreed to new terms, as well,” continued the dey, “for their attention is directed towards the war with France. They must learn that it is not wise to ignore their important obligations here.” The dey stared at his captain for a long moment of silence, hoping that he did not read the lie. Indeed, Great Britain paid over £1000 a year in tribute, an amount that would not go unnoticed by the Collector of Tributes were it not forthcoming.

“What would you have me do?” asked Zabana softly, for he thought the dey was being deliberately vague on the question of which ships were fair game.

“I want wealthy men and beautiful women, Zabana Reis,” said the dey without emotion. “Leave your garden and find them.”