FIFTY-TWO

RASCAL RODE EASILY AT DAWN UNDER THE LOOMING SHADOW OF Gibraltar. Beauty paced the deck deep in thought. The decks were holy-stoned and the crew went about their duties, splicing ropes and blacking rigging and chipping shot. Except that few could concentrate knowing that Fallon and Aja were in a desperate situation—and desperate was the right word.

Barclay had leveled with them, not sharing the message exactly but letting them know Fallon and Aja appeared to be alive, though probably prisoners and even slaves, and Rascal would be going to Algiers to get them. They were all anxious, jumpy, and eager for the time to pass. And, in truth, feeling more than a little guilty that they were doing nothing while Fallon and Aja were in such a precarious situation. And Little Eddy, what of him? No word, Barclay had said.

Beauty had shared the note with Caleb Visser, as well. He was up and about now, still convalescing from his shoulder wound, but the note sent him into despair. Not because there was no word of his father, but because it appeared his worst fears had come true. Fallon and Aja had been captured.

The rhythmic thump of Beauty’s peg leg on the deck went on all day. Back and forth, bow to stern and back, her mind in a wrestling match with itself. Her considerable capacity for anger was in search of an outlet. First, the corsairs had attacked them, a British ship on the high seas. Then the janissaries had attacked them and taken Little Eddy. Now Beauty wanted to attack someone. Fallon’s note might give her the chance if she could figure the damn thing out.

What did Fallon mean by take aboard any additional crew? He knew Rascal had almost a full complement already. The ship was ready for sea and ready for battle, though fighting hand to hand against janissaries might be beyond the pale.

Then suddenly she stopped. Every hand looked up from whatever small task or mindless work they were doing. They saw Beauty looking across the harbor, past the ships at anchor or moving about. Perhaps what she was thinking of doing wasn’t exactly what Fallon was implying, but it was certainly counterintuitive enough that it could be.

At eight bells in the morning watch Beauty called for the gig to take her ashore. Her visit would either take a long time or no time, but she was determined to do something that would aid their chances against the corsairs. Once ashore, she asked a dockhand for directions and set off for the army garrison.

As might be expected, it was a long walk up a very steep hill. The army would want a strategic position in the event of an attack on Gibraltar, and the fort was well placed with a commanding view of the harbor. Beauty climbed the track as best she could—thank goodness the ground was hard—but it was some time before she got to the gate of the fort and she had to compose herself and catch her breath.

The garrison was laid out in a quad with a center courtyard, barracks surrounding three sides with administrative offices, stock rooms, and the powder room immediately opposite the main gate. In the center of the quad perhaps five hundred soldiers were drilling, commanded by a full-throated sergeant. Beauty skirted the drill field and made for the building on the far side. Seeing a door marked “Colonel Bisanz,” she knocked.

Colonel Bisanz was a tanned, fit, be-medaled man with a spectacular handlebar mustache that curled just so at the tips. At Beauty’s entrance he rose from his desk, took off his wire glasses and looked at her curiously.

“Good morning,” he said formally. “Pray be seated, Miss…?”

“I am Beautrice McFarland, Colonel Bisanz. My friends call me Beauty but we’ll wait on that.”

If Bisanz was taken aback at the challenge in Beauty’s words he didn’t show it.

“I see,” he said. “And what is your business here, may I ask?”

“I am first mate on the British privateer, Rascal, which is sitting in the harbor just below us. Her captain is Nicholas Fallon, who went on foot to Algiers with our second mate in an attempt to rescue an American and British subject from slavery.”

A frown creased Bisanz’s face.

“Your captain is either very brave or very foolish, I believe,” said the colonel flatly. “By foot you say? Why did he not just sail his ship into the harbor? Are you aware we have a treaty with the dey of Algiers?”

“We were attacked by two corsairs before we even made Gibraltar, Colonel Bisanz,” answered Beauty, the heat coming in her words. “We sunk the bastards in open ocean. Then we sailed through the Strait where we found a third one—a big xebec—attacking an American merchant ship. We came to the American’s aid and the fucking janissaries snatched one of our crew. We were lucky to survive. So the treaty isn’t worth a damn, colonel.”

“Hmm,” said Bisanz. It was likely he’d never heard a woman with Beauty’s particular vocabulary. And the news of corsair attacks on British ships took him aback. He had no idea of it. He hesitated to speak, for it was clear Beauty’s color was getting up.

“I am sorry for your troubles, but I fail to see why you are here, madam,” he said as solicitously as he could. “Perhaps the Admiralty…”

“No, the Admiralty is in London. You’re here and I’m here to ask the army for help because the fucking navy is no help,” said Beauty and, indeed, her face was growing redder. “We took casualties in the last attack and now I’ve got to get four people out of Algiers in a week and if the janissaries get at us again I don’t know how it will go this time. I’m working on a plan but I need soldiers, maybe a hundred of your best fighters, to come with us to Algiers. I’ll feed ’em and pay ’em but I need their help. I need your help.”

At that, Bisanz’s eyebrows went up and he blustered “That’s quite impossible,” and “No, no, no,” until Beauty rose and stood over his desk and looked down on him.

“Colonel Bisanz,” she said quietly, “one of the people we’re trying to save is an eight-year-old boy who was snatched off our ship. He’s going to auction.”

At that, the colonel closed his mouth and set his jaw tightly. His entire body seemed to grow rigid and tense. He was well aware of the fates of many young boys and girls sold as slaves at Barbary auctions. He rose without a glance to Beauty and walked to the window to look out at the soldiers drilling in the center of the quad. What this woman was asking, of course, was unrealistic in the extreme and in no way comported with his orders. What she wanted was also beyond his authority to grant. Only court martial could come to an officer who dared consider stepping beyond his command. He knew Admiral Lord Keith was away and that the meek Captain Elliott would be no help if this woman approached him, which she probably had. So, no doubt in desperation, she’d come to him. She couldn’t have known he had a young son in England himself, could she?

A minute went by. Then more.

Bisanz continued his meditation by the window. The chances of Fallon getting into Algiers and out again alive were basically nil, much less getting out with two slaves. Algiers was a heavily guarded, walled city. This Fallon fellow was on a hopeless mission. But, Jesus, he kept coming back to the boy, picturing his own son’s face on the little fellow.

The sergeant outside was still shouting, the soldiers were still drilling, everything was as it should be except this fierce woman was in his office likely drilling holes into his back with her eyes, no doubt wondering if he was the kind of officer who could be bound by a higher code than his orders. God in heaven, he thought.

He was still looking out the window when he bowed his head and closed his eyes and whispered yes. He was exactly that kind of officer.

And then a voice behind him said softly: “Thank you, colonel. And please call me Beauty.”