FORTY-SEVEN

FRIAR ORTURO LED THE WAY WITH FALLON AND AJA TRAILING BEHIND. The camel had been left at the campsite. It was a valuable animal and a Bedouin or passing traveler would count themselves lucky to find it.

They talked of many things as they walked, always silent, however, when passing fellow travelers. Friar Orturo was a learned man, and he put Fallon in mind of Ezra Somers, with the exception that Somers had a short fuse and was anything but passive, being prone to anger and even violence on occasion.

As they approached the city the friar suggested they throw away their weapons, which they did. Well, the obvious ones anyway. Up ahead a white wall stretched left and right as far as could be seen. In the middle of the wall was a black gate through which travelers passed. A tall janissary stood guard with a musket, carefully eyeing each person who approached.

As they drew closer, Friar Orturo whispered their cue, and Fallon and Aja began moving around in circles, laughing uproariously. The friar was gesturing with his arms, becoming animated as he spoke in Arabic to the guard.

Next, Fallon and Aja began picking imaginary flowers, laughing when they found a pretty one, moving about the desert picking and picking until they each had an imaginary bouquet. Then they placed the flowers one by one in each other’s turban and went back to picking flowers. Slowly they found more flowers next to the gate and then there were some lovely ones just inside the gate within the city and they moved inside to pick those.

The janissary stared at them hard, but heeded the friar’s pleas and let them pass, looking away in disgust as he did so.

Once inside the wall, Fallon and Aja continued picking flowers along the narrow path until it wound around to their right, out of sight of the gate.

“You are indeed wonderful actors, my friends,” said the Friar, smiling benevolently. “The guard was compassionate and willingly let you pass.”

“What did you tell him, pray, that convinced him to do so?” Fallon asked incongruously.

“Why, I told him the truth as I saw it,” said the Friar mischievously. “I told him you were both crazy.”

Fallon and Aja both smiled broadly.

“In the Islamic faith,” the friar continued, “all diseases are trials and tests from Allah, even diseases of the mind. I told him you had weak minds and came to the city to pray and be cured.”

“Thank you, Friar,” said Fallon. “You have saved us a great deal of trouble getting into the city.”

“No, my brothers,” said the Friar, not unkindly. “Your trouble will be getting out.”

And then he ambled away.

A group of janissaries came down their little path and Fallon and Aja kept their heads down, but they could see the red slippers of the janissaries as they marched past them. Once the soldiers were out of sight, they began walking slowly, Fallon behind Aja, to explore the city.

The sun glistened the white walls and the heat already shimmered off the rooftop terraces above the bright houses they passed. They wound their way along narrow streets and alleys barely wider than they could reach with their arms outstretched; the buildings seemed to almost lean over the streets and touch. In these shadowy passages, or ruelles, pirates and thieves had found easy anonymity for hundreds of years, slipping in and out of the safety of darkness unseen and unheard. Fallon and Aja halted next to an arched door with a black knocker in the shape of a fist to get their bearings, which proved quite impossible. A tiny passage, or impasse, wound away into shadows and they slipped along it until it opened in sunlight to a souk, or marketplace. Merchants called out to them, hawking their wares, but they dared not look up. Out of the corners of their eyes they could see bolts of silk and damask for sale on long tables next to crates of chickens and tables of jewelry and thrown vases. The day’s business was in full swing.

As they came to an intersection of sorts they looked to their right up the hill and could see the qasba above a dense sea of houses broken by domed mosques and gold-topped minarets. And, above that, a blindingly white sentinel—the palace of the dey. Turning next to their left they could see a bit of the harbor, spectacularly blue in the clear light. Fallon counted a score of xebecs and feluccas, light galleys with oars, and all manner of smaller vessels. He moved his scarf a bit to get a better view but he could see no sign of Zabana’s ship. That was good.

“Let’s take this road down to the harbor,” he whispered to Aja, who nodded and turned left. It was always the sailor’s way to head to the sea; the water pulled at the heart. But this was not for sustenance, but recognizance. The road was made of cobblestones worn smooth by hundreds of years of foot traffic and in very little time they were through an open gate at the base of the lower city and stood on the quay. To their left, the long arm of the Great Mole that Sir William had described. It curved in a hook inward several hundred yards from the quay. Fallon could see a ship sailing near the mole that was festooned with banners and flags, which he took to be the pilot boat on patrol for ships wanting to enter the harbor. He knew from the chart the harbor was quite shallow in many places and a pilot would be needed to guide approaching ships to their anchorages.

To their right were various packets being unloaded by men in ragged clothes whom Fallon took for slaves. The ships looked to be Russian and Italian and could have been captures, but who could tell? A small knot of guards hovered near the slaves, fingering their scimitars or muskets as the men worked dutifully under their gaze. One slave seemed less vigorous, even bent and frail. Fallon wondered if this was Wilhelm Visser, but he dared not stare. A moment more, for they were afraid to stay longer, and with a murmur to Aja they turned and retraced their steps up the hill.

Now they could see up the road to the magnificent white palace with its tall walls pierced by the black circles of cannons. It was certainly in a commanding position to defend the city and, along with the cannon situated on the mole, made Algiers unassailable by sea by all but a fleet bombardment. To Fallon’s mind, it made the decision to come on foot as opposed to sailing into the harbor the correct one.

The houses on either side of the road were like cubes of salt or sugar stacked on top of one another, marching up the hill towards the qasba. Fallon tugged Aja’s sleeve and they turned left down a narrow path, across the steep hill, towards another busy marketplace. He hoped an opportunity would present itself in one of these souks to find someone European, hopefully British, anyone who could counsel them and give them the lay of the land.

The merchants were set up under porticos around a square, within which was an elaborate water fountain surrounded by low stone pedestals. Suddenly, Fallon knew this was the auction site for slaves; indeed, chains with manacles were attached to the pedestals. Fallon closed his eyes, imagining Little Eddy standing on the highest pedestal, the bidders surrounding him, touching his body and feeling his arms and legs and perhaps more. Fallon winced at the image and turned to look at Aja, whose eyes were glowing fiercely. They had both come to the same conclusion about the market and for Aja, in particular, the pedestals were a grim reminder of his own auction into slavery.

They pushed on through the square and found a bench against a tree upon which to rest. Their heads down, staring at their sandaled feet, they dared to talk quietly.

“Aja, what do you think so far?” whispered Fallon.

“I saw some men look at us strangely back in the market,” said Aja softly. “I don’t think we should stay here too long.”

“Yes. But I wish we could find the prison where the slaves are held,” said Fallon quietly. “Sir William said it was just above the harbor somewhere. Let’s take another look and then we can find a spot in the shadows to consider next steps.”

“I understand, captain, sir,” said Aja. “I will lead the way as we walk.”

But they were to have an escort. Just as they were about to rise more feet suddenly came into their downward view. Four pairs of feet with red slippers. A deep voice asked them a question which they did not understand. But what they knew was that their freedom was over.

Renegade had every sail up and drawing in the warm southerly as she bore the breeze to her bosom, taking all the wind’s power for her own, her ropes straining with the great effort of driving a ship at full force under sail. Occasionally an unlucky sailor took a wash of green water over the bow to the jeers and laughter of his shipmates, and porpoises ran alongside for great stretches of time, easily keeping pace with the ship. It was glorious sailing, glorious enough to forget about the poor food and hard labor and meagre pay that was the lot of Royal Navy tars. A man could forget all his troubles on a day such as this.

The big ship was its own city. And each man had a job to do to make the city work efficiently. Any slacking was immediately felt throughout the ship and dealt with by the bosun or any of the lieutenants before word of the miscreant reached Captain Jones’s ears. Jones had been aboard ships with loose captains who rarely came out of their cabins and barely took an interest in the running of the ship or the scuttlebutt on the lower decks. He had seen the lethargy that brought to a ship’s company, and how rumor and mischief followed. He vowed if he ever had his own ship he would be a firm but compassionate captain and nothing would escape his notice. Of course, he expected every man to do his duty no matter the conditions or situation. The men were drilled and drilled again, and Jones delighted in the cries of the men racing each other aloft and the creaking of the big guns running in and out, in and out. He knew that repetition brought disciplined action in battle, when smoke and thunder could overwhelm the senses.

Renegade was just over a week from Gibraltar, her passage aided by the favorable slant of wind from the south that seemed constant day and night. The lookout had reported no other ships in sight since they’d left English Harbor and it was easy to be lulled into a soft, easy sense of security, so easy that Jones worked the crew at exercises aloft and with the great guns to keep the men on their toes as they pushed further across the Atlantic and closer to Southern Europe.

It was just in the forenoon when all Jones’ attention to preparation, all the sail changes aloft and practice with the great guns ceased being pure exercise.

“Deck there!” came the lookout’s call from on high. “Ship off the larboard bow! I make her five miles away!”

That single report set every man on alert and Jones was called from his cabin to come on deck at once. Nothing could be seen from the deck yet, and a ship coming from Southern Europe could be from any country, but Jones wisely called Beat to Quarters and the drums rat-a-tatted as the men went to their stations. Shot and powder were brought out of the locker and the gun crews stood ready at their charges. The bulkheads were struck before the mysterious ship was four miles away.

“Lookout!” called Jones from the quarterdeck. “What do you make of her now?”

“A small frigate by the looks of her!” came the answer. “French or I’m damned!”

That sent excitement through Renegade’s crew; to a ship so long in harbor on the ways the prospect of a prize was beyond welcome. The tension onboard was palpable and Jones felt it, as well, and he longed inexpressibly to command a ship in battle again. It had been a year since Renegade had been in action.

The ships were growing closer and Jones ordered the British colors to be hoisted to see if that would flush the same action from the oncoming ship. It did, the French capitaine showing unexpected spunk in the face of a bigger foe. On the ships came; on their present courses they would pass within a quarter mile of each other. Jones ordered the helmsman to fall off to leeward so as to close the gap and attempt to force the capitaine’s hand before he had to show his own. Renegade had the weather gauge, though the French actually preferred to engage from leeward, a position that left them in a position to retreat before the wind. In fact, at a mile and a half the French ship bore off northward, the capitaine’s spunk having evaporated, and ran before the wind in an attempt to outrun the big British ship. Renegade quickly fell off, as well, and followed.

“Deck there!” came the lookout’s call. “She looks to be a Venus class!”

Jones knew immediately that he was chasing one of the class of small frigates favored by the French. He knew them to be lightly built, not from any want of good design or materials, but because of intent: French ships were not built to be away from port for any great length of time and thus the need to carry a great store of shot and supplies was limited. Jones pictured the ship in his mind and knew that she carried twenty-six 12-pounders and was probably a good sailer.

But not, as it turned out, as fast downwind as the much larger Renegade. Within two hours the British ship was up to her and her name could be read: Honneur. It was soon after that Jones had stolen the Frenchman’s wind and forced the capitaine to accept the inevitable. This was a race he would not win. Without firing a shot he hauled down his colors and hove-to.

Renegade had her first prize in a very long time. After he had sent a boarding party across to Honneur, Jones began pacing the deck deep in thought, smiling to himself as he walked. It was not every day that a French prize could be taken without a shot. He wondered how it would look in the Gazette, and then he chided himself for caring.

Here was his gig coming back, hopefully carrying the capitaine’s orders, assuming they hadn’t been thrown overboard. At word that the French crew were locked below decks, Jones breathed easier and ordered Renegade’s guns secured.

This battle, such as it was, was over.

It was much later when Jones sat in his cabin and pondered the interview with the French capitaine of Honneur which, to his mind, had produced little in the way of useful information. He had invited Sir William to sit in on the interview and translate, for he spoke many languages, including French. Honneur had been on her way to Martinique to take off several officials and return them to France, no more. Jones and Sir William had reviewed the capitaine’s orders and concluded he was telling the truth.

Jones and the crew of Renegade were delighted that the French ship had been taken without a shot, for that meant it was not necessary to repair damage—shot holes and shattered spars and the like—before taking her to the prize court. Jones ordered a small prize crew aboard Honneur to follow Renegade to Gibraltar and the prize agent there.

If Lord Keith was not there, his orders were to proceed on to Genoa to find him.