Ocean Without End (4 page)

‘Gale's dropped,' said Jem.

‘Will we be docking anywhere soon?' asked Cook. ‘Supplies is running mighty low.'

‘You'll be sniffing Africa any day now.'

I sat up. Africa. Had we come so far?

Jem stared at me for a moment. ‘How's your head?'

Cheeky fellow.

‘It's all right.'

‘No need for you to go belting her over the conk like that, anyhow,' said Cook.

Jem snorted. ‘Weren't me, although I should have clobbered her for lying.'

‘Trying to save her own skin,' said Cook. ‘Can't blame her for that.'

‘Aye. Still, she don't seem like she suffered too much.' A smile danced in Jem's eyes. ‘I wouldn't worry about that one, Cookie. You shoulda seen her dump Harry in the drink.'

Cook laughed his rare, wheezy laugh.

‘Atta girl, that's my Cygnet.'

I giggled, but Jem's smile had vanished.

‘What did you call her?'

‘Cygnet,' said Cook. ‘Although Carlo says it different, like, in Portuguese or something. It's a little —'

‘I know what it is,' said Jem, roughly. He turned to me. ‘I told you to keep that quiet.'

‘I … I'm sorry. Cook asked my name and it … just came out.' I was stammering, suddenly afraid all over again. ‘I told him I'd never heard of Rafe Swann.'

‘So she did,' said Cookie. ‘But I guessed she was romancing the truth a little. Relative or something, was he?'

I hung my head. ‘He was my father.'

The men exchanged glances.

‘S'alright, Jem,' said Cook. ‘We just call her that for fun. Nobody else knows what it means.'

‘They don't mean any harm by it,' I said.

‘It's not me you need to fear,' Jem said quietly.

‘No,' shouted a deep voice from the passageway.

‘It's me you must fear!'

El Capitán de Diablo was leaning heavily against the doorframe.

‘Fear me! The Blackbeard of Barbary!'

He laughed, way down in his throat. In his right hand was a sword, a jagged-edged boarding cutlass. His other hand groped for something to support him. He was as drunk as a toadfish, I could see. He had no hat on, just a red scarf wound around his head, with another at his waist. His coat was wet through.

Jem and Cook just stayed quietly where they were, not moving. I did the same.

‘Who's afraid?' Diablo yelled. ‘Aye, you should all be afraid of me, every damn one of you!'

His fist slammed the wood above his head so hard that the candles spluttered in their lanterns. He glanced up, as if surprised to find himself below deck, instead of out in the open under a stormy sky.

‘Well, I'll be blowed.' He seemed to be talking to himself, but his gaze suddenly fixed on me.

‘Who the blazes is this?' he shouted.

At last, Jem took a step forward.

‘It's the Santa Lucia girl, Cap. You remember, you banished her to the galley to help Cook.'

Diablo cocked his head to one side, trying to remember my face, perhaps even my arrival on the ship. His eyes were wavering, switching from me to Jem to the floor. Finally he banged his fist again on the beam above him.

‘Damn right! Banish her to the galley. About bloody time!'

Jem took another step closer to his captain.

‘We'd best get back up on deck, sir,' he said. ‘We should be sighting the coast soon enough.'

Diablo sneered, a broad gape of rotten teeth through his beard.

‘Tripoli, at last. Of course. Up on deck. Land ho! Where away?'

‘On the larboard bow, sir, any time now,' Jem assured him.

‘Tripoli and booty, beauty and booty, that's the course.'

‘Aye, sir.'

Diablo spun around and staggered back towards the companionway. At the bottom of the ladder he stopped, put one foot on the lowest step, and then slumped downwards. Cook and I watched from the galley as Jem wrapped the captain's arm about his shoulders and dragged him to the cabin.

That night the fearsome El Capitán de Diablo went to bed early.

By the time he was on deck the next morning, the sun was well up and we were lying at anchor
in a broad bay, circled by a sandy beach. The storm seemed to have blown itself out and blown us up onto the coast of Africa. It wasn't Tripoli. It wasn't anywhere, as far as I could see. There was no sign of life on the shore, only a couple of deserted huts on the beach, and the ruins of an old Roman theatre up on the crumbling cliff. Still, the captain looked pleased enough as he surveyed the coastline.

‘Fine bit of navigating, if I do say so myself.'

‘What do we do now, sir?' asked Jem, who was standing nearby. ‘Any orders?'

Diablo peered intently at the horizon. ‘No orders. We just wait. I'll be in my cabin. Call me if you sight a sail.'

‘Aye, sir.'

Once the captain had stomped off below, I tiptoed up to Jem.

‘Why are we hove to? Expecting another storm?'

‘No, lass, we're expecting guests.'

‘Out here? There's nobody about.'

‘There will be, soon enough. Never you mind now. Cook'll be needing you down below, we've extra mouths to feed tonight.'

I scrambled down to the galley.

‘Cookie! Jem says we're to have guests to supper.'

‘Aye, so I heard.'

‘Who is it?' I asked.

‘I don't know and I don't care, and neither should you if you know what's best. All I do know is I've been told to cook no pork.'

‘What?'

‘Not allowed no pork, our guests.'

It took a moment to sink in.

‘Jews? Are there Jewish pirates?'

‘Course there are. There's all sorts. But tonight's guests? Arabs maybe. Who knows? Anyhow, we'd best get on with it. Tell Miller I need the last of the goats brought down. That'll have to do, though where we'll get another goat in these parts is a mystery to me.'

He clucked his tongue a few times and busied himself with a sack of vegetables.

‘Quick about it, girl! And I'll need some chickens.'

We'd never had a feast on board
Gisella
, and just as well, too. It was hard work. Cook roped several of the starboard watch into rowing him to the beach to slaughter the goat and set it turning on a spit over hot coals.

I stayed on board, way below, scraping vegetables and baking flat bread. It was a terribly hot day, with no breeze to speak of. Whoever was coming to dinner was probably becalmed somewhere east of us. I didn't mind. If they didn't turn up, we'd have a roast goat and a mountain of food all to ourselves.

There was some kind of commotion on deck. I guessed it was Cook returning with the meat, and scrambled up the ladder to help ferry it aboard. There'd be plenty of sailors happy to carry it for him, but we'd never see that goat again if they got their greasy hands on it. But it wasn't Cook in his little rowing boat — it was another ship coming in to anchor in the cove beside us. A beauty she was, too, slender and sleek with one enormous blue sail and long oars arranged on either side. She was a glossy
red, with a great blue and yellow eye painted on her prow.

Moggia was at the rails, watching closely. I stood beside him, both of us gazing in wonder at the ship and the men aboard her.

‘Is it a slave galley?'

‘No, no, she's crewed by freemen, I think, by the look,' said Moggia, ‘She's a
taridha
— faster and smaller than a galley, and easier to handle in and out of these tricky little bays.'

‘Are they from Algiers?' I asked. I didn't think I'd ever seen such men. Many were bare-chested like our crew, but several wore flowing blue robes, as light as a pennant in the breeze.

‘Moors, I'd say. See those scimitars? Mighty swords, eh? Don't want to get on the wrong end of one of those, Cyg.'

‘They'd slice you in two.'

‘
Si
.' Moggia touched my shoulder. ‘You slip out of sight now. Our guests aren't used to seeing a
signorina
on board ship. Stay down below with Cookie until they're gone.'

I nodded. There was something about these men, this strange meeting in the deserted inlet, which made me feel uneasy. I'd stay right out of harm's way.

There was enough to do, anyway. Cook returned with the roasted meats, shouting out for me to bring a cheese from the locker. Sweat ran in trickles down the backs of my legs as I stood over the boiling pans checking the puddings. It was as hot as Hades in the galley, but I felt safer there than anywhere on the ship.

Slowly the food disappeared, the fancy plates to the cabin where Diablo entertained the corsair captain, and great platters of meat up to the deck where the crews were sharing a gallon or two of Madeira. There was muffled music and sounds of stomping above us on the deck as the men started up a drunken jig or two, and from somewhere across the water the high note of a flute.

‘Not so pure, after all, these Turks, eh?' Cook winked.

We were both exhausted, collapsed near the water pump — the coolest place in our little world. Cook chewed noisily on the goat's shin bone.

‘Ah well,' he said. ‘Pirates is pirates. They'll all be drunk before night, and then there'll be strife, you mark my words. No love lost between those two, you know.'

‘Who? The captains?'

‘Aye. Them barbarians is not popular with our captain, no sir.'

‘I thought you said they were Turks.'

‘Ottoman fleet's made up of all sorts. All heathens, if you ask me. World's never been the same since we lost the Crusades.'

‘They certainly know how to sail. It's a beautiful ship.'

‘Aye, fine crew, fine captain — I'll give 'em that.'

‘Cookie, who are they?' I asked. ‘There's no reason for them to be around here. They must be from Tripoli, surely. Or Tunis.'

‘Whatever you say, young Cyg. You know better than I, as always.'

‘But if Diablo hates them, why are we feeding them our last goat?' I asked.

‘Who knows, lass? Who knows?'

‘I'm sure you do.' I got to my tired feet and brought him a flagon of wine. ‘You know everything that goes on aboard
Gisella
.'

He took another swig of wine. ‘Maybe I do, but why would I tell you?'

‘Don't, then. I don't care.' I moved towards the bench and started banging a few pots around. ‘I'll scrub these, then we can get started on the salted fish.'

‘No, no, it's too early. I just need some peace and bloody quiet.' Cook sighed and heaved his body further onto the bench. He settled into his storytelling face.

‘You sit down and be good, for once, and I might tell you a tale.'

I brought a handful of figs, bartered from the corsair ship, and squeezed in beside him.

Cookie was in a talkative mood. Perhaps it was the wine. I waited for a long moment and asked, very softly, ‘Tell me what you know about Rafe Swann … about my father.'

‘Tall man, was he? Red beard?'

‘I don't really remember,' I confessed.

‘I do. Big red beard and wild hair to match. Not like your hair. Fiery red, it was. I saw him once in a tavern. Famous and feared, he was, Captain Swann.'

‘That can't be him. My father wasn't captain of anything much.'

‘Never mind then. I'll tell you a different story.'

‘No, go on, please. You never know, it might be him.'

‘Well, he and Diablo had a terrible fight.'

‘Over what?' I asked.

‘I don't know. This is before my time. Anyway, Diablo took Swann's ship — the
Black Swan
, I think it was.'

‘That's wrong. He had a little fishing boat called the
Cygnet
, same as you call me.'

‘Did he now? Ain't that a joke? Maybe it's a different man, after all. This Captain Swann had a captured French schooner. Only eight guns, but fast. She used to winter in Valletta Harbour. She was fine, sleek — aye, the
Black Swan
, she was. Feared all along the Barbary Coast, and Greece too.'

My heart fell through my belly fast as an anchor. All this time I'd hoped Cookie knew the truth, but the Rafe Swann he knew was someone completely different.

‘So Diablo sank his ship — terrible fight it was, almost everyone killed and both ships shot to pieces. They marooned Swann on a rock somewhere. No one's heard of him since. Might be still there, poor soul.'

He stopped suddenly as Carlo ran towards us down the passageway.

‘What is it, lad?' Cook called. ‘They can't be wanting more supper.'

Carlo shook his head. ‘No, they want Cyg.'

Me? A sudden flash of fear prickled across my scalp and down my neck.

‘What do they want with her?' said Cook. He stood, towering over Carlo. ‘They'll not lay a hand on my Cygnet.'

‘I don't know. “Fetch the girl”, that's all they said.'

‘Are they drunk?' said Cook, gruffly.

‘They don't appear to be. The Ottoman captain, he doesn't touch a drop.'

‘Hmm. Well, all right then. But you tell the captain I need her back here, in one piece, to help with the pots.'

Carlo nodded.

‘I don't really want to,' I said.

‘I don't suppose you do,' said Cook. ‘Can't say I would neither, in your place. Still, you'd best go get it over with.'

I just stood there.

‘Go on, then.' Cook shoved me towards the door. ‘But behave yourself. Don't argue with anyone. There's not many girls in this world who would argue with two pirate captains, but I wouldn't put it past you. So be nice, or I'll give you a clip across the ear.'

My shoulders slumped as Carlo took my arm and led me towards the cabin. Facing Diablo again was bad enough, but two of them? What could they want with me? Whatever it was, it wouldn't be good.

I tried to speak to Carlo, but there was nothing to say. He gave me a weak smile as he opened the cabin door and showed me in.

It was dark inside, and hellishly hot. Candles burned in the middle of a table strewn with bits of cake, parchment and a vast chart. The room was
silent, but for the sounds of the ship's cat crunching chicken bones in the corner. I kept my eyes cast down.

‘Here it is, our little flotsam,' said Diablo. ‘Come in, and quick about it.'

‘Aye, sir,' I whispered.

In the corner of the room was someone else, someone in pale blue, someone staring. At me.

‘Come closer,' Diablo said, and I jumped a little at the sound.

I took two steps forward until my hands were nearly touching the table.

‘Do you know Isola di Bravo?' Diablo asked.

It was such a simple unexpected question that I looked up, straight into his eyes.

‘Off Santa Lucia?' I asked. ‘Of course. My brother and I used to sail there.'

‘Into the grotto?'

‘Yes.' My voice was normal now, although I felt weak with relief. They only wanted directions. ‘Well, you don't sail into it, you row into the cave until you get to the Golden Grotto.'

‘Have you dived there?'

‘In the Golden Grotto?' I waited for his nod. ‘No, sir. It's too dark. You can't see. Besides, there are killer eels down deep.'

He laughed. ‘Who told you that — some superstitious sailor?'

‘It's not funny, sir, it's true. Everyone knows it.'

Diablo slammed his hand on the table and turned to the man in the corner. ‘You see what I have to put up with? I told you.'

The man in the corner spoke quietly, almost gently. ‘Look at me, child,' he said.

I did. His face was in shadow, but I could see skin too pale for a corsair. Yet his robes were light and flowed like a dress, or a sheet draped casually across a bed. At his belt hung a mighty sword, the scabbard jewelled and curving. He dressed like an Arab, but spoke like an Englishman — perhaps a faint lilt, a touch of Irish.