FORTY-FIVE

IT WAS DAWN WHEN SERPENT REACHED THE QUAY INSIDE ALGIERS’ harbor and a deeply humiliated Zabana ordered the captives to be off-loaded and taken to the slave pens. There were several ships at the quay being unloaded and Serpent was the farthest from the gate. That suited Zabana’s mood, for he had no wish to be seen by the dey until he was ready.

He would sail the world if he had to in order to find the British schooner that had stolen his prize from him. Resentment seethed inside Zabana as he looked longingly at his beheading cart, imagining everything he was going to do to the schooner’s infidel captain.

First, he would have to confess his loss to the dey. He would lie about the attack and claim he fought valiantly against a bigger ship, perhaps a large frigate.

And she would be British, of course.

Wilhelm Visser was on the quay as usual with a bag of wheat on his shoulder when he saw wounded and bedraggled sailors and janissaries being led off Zabana’s ship. He saw new captives being marched towards the pens, and among them was a young boy. He looked to be about eight, and Visser was immediately gripped by fear for him. He would no doubt be sold at the slave auction with all the other prisoners that Zabana’s corsairs had captured, and he knew that certain Arabs liked young boys for pleasure.

What could he do?

He thought of his own sons at that age, young and full of life and trusting, and he thought he would be sick. The boy looked at him as he was led away and Visser looked back, a promise in his eyes that he had no idea how to fulfill.

And then, an idea. There was nothing to lose by trying, he decided.

After so long in captivity and constantly acquiescing to their demands, the guards on the dock had come to know Visser and trust him more than most slaves. In truth, he had never given the guards any reason to mistrust him.

So it was not unnatural for him to approach the head guard overseeing the other slaves on the quay to ask a favor. With all the wickedness he could summon in a smile he asked if he and the boy could have a pen to themselves.

The head guard smiled back wickedly, as well. Then the other guards joined in, smiling knowingly.

It could be arranged.

Fallon and Aja slowly crossed the desert and no one stopped them or paid much notice. To all accounts they looked like Bedouins, or hoped they did, and their faces were covered with scarves to present only their eyes to the curious. As they drew closer to Algiers the travelers they met grew more numerous and, if anything, paid even less attention to them. It grew much hotter in the middle of the day, and though Fallon longed to remove the scarf covering most of his face he dared not. Aja repeatedly asked if he would please ride the camel, but Fallon refused. His role was to be Aja’s slave and he would trudge on; the more tired he became the more he looked the part.

The camel was a sturdy beast and easily followed Fallon. The Bedouins were known to be excellent camel trainers and the camel Aja rode proved the point. When they reached the edge of the city, however, they would set him free and go ahead on foot.

Algiers was not far away now. The track veered closer to the sea; Fallon could smell it close by, but without climbing a tree he could see no boats or sails. As the light began to fade in the late afternoon a small, hot breeze began blowing from the south. Out there somewhere was the fabled Sahara Desert with its miles upon miles of arid sand. It was said that all of Africa’s myths and mirages originated there.

They decided to stop short of the city and make camp early, off the track as before, but without a fire. Fallon wanted to enter the city fresh the next morning, with his wits about him should quick thinking be required, which was more than likely. He calculated that Algiers must be only a few miles away. He tried to sleep, but all he could do was fret about how easily they had been found out by the Bedouins. There were so many cultural clues, he decided, that no amount of disguise could cover. Perhaps the way they held their heads, or met a gaze, or perhaps something just hadn’t seemed right about them to the Bedouins.

As he thought ahead to what the next day would bring inside the city, he felt a cold shudder of fear. And it wasn’t the cooling desert air he was feeling. He had a premonition of failure as powerful as any feeling he had felt in his life. And it was made all the more powerful by the knowledge that there was no turning back.

The long rollers of the Atlantic held moonlight as Jones took a turn around Renegade’s deck. He stood at the taffrail and stared at the ship’s wake, flecked with light that disappeared and reappeared. It seemed to stretch all the way back to Antigua.

Jones was the most junior on the captain’s seniority list, but he was still a young man and the war and old age created vacancies on the list so he had no worry about moving up. He lived in the present; well, most of the time. And the present meant seeing his ship and his important passenger safely to the Mediterranean.

Sir William had said little at their dinner that first night to enlighten him as to his role in the events of the Mediterranean or his particular relationship with Lord Keith. Secrecy was apparently the watchword and, to that end, Sir William had kept more or less to himself since that dinner, no doubt to avoid unwanted conversation and prying questions. Jones had no real experience with men like Sir William, men who kept to the shadows and revealed a false front to the world. Perhaps Sir William sensed his curiosity and that made him all the more reclusive.

Admiral Davies had confided in Jones only that his passenger was an acquaintance of Lord Keith’s, who relied on Sir William’s insights gained as a businessman who moved more or less freely between nations in the Mediterranean. To Jones, even with his limited world view, that said spy. Jones’ orders were to call at Gibraltar, ascertain Lord Keith’s exact whereabouts, and deliver Sir William to him.

That, along with a letter entrusted to him by Admiral Davies.