Ocean Without End (5 page)

‘Do you know me?' he asked.

I shook my head.

‘Good.'

He stood, as best he could in the low cabin, his arm resting on the back of a chair. I could see him better now. He had blue eyes, and a white cloth wrapped about his close-cropped head. Not a real corsair at all, then. An Irishman turned Turk.

‘So you know all about the Golden Grotto. You could take El Capitán de Diablo there, if he wanted?'

The last thing on earth I wanted was Diablo anywhere near Santa Lucia, but I nodded.

‘I could take a small boat, that's all. You couldn't take
Gisella
close in to those cliffs.'

‘I see.' His lips twitched a little. ‘Do you by any chance know the Lion Cave on Santa Lucia?'

I stared down at the map. ‘No, sir, I'm sorry. There are so many caves.'

I felt him move near. He was watching me.

‘Can you read the chart, girl?' he asked.

It was a chart of the whole area, from Santa Lucia to Malta and on to Sicily. The coast around the
island, my island, was well-marked — not as clear as the maps we had at home, but clear enough. My finger rested on the tiny rock that was Isola di Bravo, just to the east of Santa Lucia. I could imagine its cliffs, the white water that meant you were too close in, the cavern that led to the Golden Grotto.

‘Who in blazes taught you to read a chart?' said Diablo.

‘I'm not sure, sir. I've always known how. My father must have taught me, I suppose, when I was too little to remember.'

‘Bait!' he shouted. ‘That's what you are! I should have thrown you overboard the moment I saw you. I knew it. You're bewitched. Girls can't read charts.'

‘That's enough,' said the corsair. He leaned over the map. ‘She's right. That's the cove. She can lead you to the grotto, and that's what you want. Who cares if she's bewitched?'

Diablo muttered something about breaking my neck.

The corsair raised his hand to still the complaints.

‘Your father taught you well. Is he perhaps a naval captain on some ship of the line?'

‘Ha!' Diablo chortled. ‘If you'd seen her when she fell onto our deck, you'd have known she was no captain's daughter. Never seen such a poor bloody sight. All scraggly and in rags. Not worth ransoming. Not worth feeding, for that matter.'

He waved me away.

‘Get back to the galley. I'm sick of the sight of you.'

‘Wait.' The other man's voice was softer. He bent
down, his face close to mine. I could smell spiced tea and lemons on his breath. ‘Who is your father?'

‘My father is dead, sir. He was a fisherman. He drowned at sea.'

‘Fishermen don't usually have need of charts.'

‘I don't know about that, sir. All I know is, I can sail and read a chart and catch a feed, and nobody really taught me any of it, as I remember. I was very young when he died.'

‘But you can read?' he probed.

‘My mother taught me that, sir.'

‘You see, Diablo? She has a mother. You might have ransomed her after all.'

‘Her mother taught her to be bloody cheeky. Probably some Santa Lucia tart, that's all.'

Stay calm, I told myself. Keep that anger tight and cold.

But he knew, that corsair. He cast a quick glance at my clenched fists and turned away.

Then, in an instant, I knew the name of this Barbary captain. I drew the secret from somewhere deep within me: the whispered name of every mother's fear. Hussein Reis. The Irish Arab. The fair-haired captain turned Turk, they said, and grown rich on the slavery route. One of the so-called renegades — European sailors who sailed in the fleet of the Ottoman Empire. Hussein Reis, captor of innocents, pillager of fishing towns and cathedrals alike. He showed no pity, never dispensed the mercy of Allah.

What did Hussein Reis want with Santa Lucia?

I felt as if we were fixed in time, the three of us,
suspended in amber like insects, in that stifling cabin. I waited for an eternity while Diablo studied the chart once more and mumbled to himself.

Every so often he shot a question at me. How high was the cliff around Isola di Bravo? Could it be climbed? Was there a ledge inside the grotto? How could I be sure?

Hussein Reis stared out the cabin window, as if surveying the coast. He was still staring, unsurprised, when the cry came from above.

‘Sail ho!'

‘Hell!' cried Diablo, scrambling to his feet. ‘Clear for action!' he shouted as he ran from the cabin. ‘Weigh anchor!'

There was a huge commotion on deck. I stayed where I was. So did Hussein Reis. I didn't dare move until he did. Finally, he sighed. ‘What's your name, child?'

His eyes caught a reflection from the water outside the window.

‘It's Lily, sir.'

‘Lily? And your father's name?'

I gulped. ‘I don't really know, sir.'

He looked away again. ‘I see. Well, Lily, it seems like we're in for a scrap here, so you get yourself somewhere safe.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Oh and … Lily?'

I said nothing.

‘You are right. It's a fool's errand looking for treasure in the Golden Grotto. Don't tell Diablo that — it only makes him angry. Let him search in vain if
he must. But remember, should you need to, you can dive as deep as you like in the grotto, and you will find safety.'

‘Yes, sir.'

I bobbed a curtsy, as best I knew how, and backed out of the room. What an odd man.

The ship was in uproar, with men running everywhere and carpenters clearing for action while gun crews ran out the cannon. The galley was chaotic, as Cook tried to douse the fires and stow his gear all at once.

‘That's all we need,' he moaned. ‘One moment it's bleedin' dinner guests, and then it's a naval patrol.'

I helped him batten down until he ordered me away to check on the livestock. On deck, the captain's voice was getting louder and louder as the crew scrambled to get some sail up, anything to get us out of the cove and into clear water. The sleek Arab
taridha
was already beyond the headland, oars striking the water in unison, its vast lateen sail catching the light breeze. At the tiller was the slender figure of Hussein Reis, in his blue robes, one arm raised in farewell to
Gisella
.

On the horizon were three ships on the hunt, perhaps for us — Spanish or French navy. Had they even sighted our masts against the coast? I said a silent prayer that we might be caught, swiftly and with no mercy.

The crew had some sail aloft, although not enough to make us too visible.
Gisella
lurched suddenly as the wind caught the canvas, though the boys were still groaning at the capstan, straining to bring the
anchor to the surface. At last, with a final push on the spokes, they had the anchor free of the water and ready to be lashed down.

Another cry from above: ‘Rocks! Away on the bow!'

A few of the men up on the yards were shouting down to us and pointing. I ran to the rails. We were drifting far too close in for my liking, with not enough wind to bring us about and out of danger. Nasty sharp-edged rocks, they were, too, with the waves crashing against them. Even in a small boat it'd be a close shave.

There was panic in the men's voices. I guessed they'd rather take their chances with the navy ships than be crushed against the rocks, here on the edge of the desert. On this desolate coast nobody would find a shipwrecked crew. Nobody would save us.

‘About ship!'

Jem jumped up on the quarterdeck, calling out.

‘Ready about!'

Miller was at the wheel, using all his weight to bring the ship around.

‘Helm's a-lee!' he cried.

The deck watch let go the staysail sheets and ran across to pull the headsail tight. I ran with them, joined the end of the line, and pulled on the sheet with all my might.

It wasn't much, but it was just enough to get us under way.
Gisella
lurched again, out into the bay, and we tacked carefully into open water. The crew worked like demons, desperate to get away from this damned cove. The huge square sails had to be
angled around on their yards to catch the wind. We heaved so hard on the braces I thought my elbows might pop out of their sockets.

It was the same as being out in the
Swallow
with Lucas, really, except there were ten times as many sails and sheets, and the pulleys were about as big as my head. But the sounds were familiar, and the luffing of the canvas told the same story. I helped as best I could, anticipating Jem's calls and running to wherever I could be of most use. I knew, like he did, when it was time to tack again, when to get ready, when to squint up at the sails for those tell-tale signs.

We rounded the headland at last, catching the offshore breeze, and it wasn't until we were running downwind along the coast that we relaxed. Hussein Reis and his low, fast
taridha
were already out of sight.

Jem strode past to check on the foresail, and patted my head as he passed.

‘Good work, Cygnet,' he whispered. ‘You must be a hell of a sailor.'

It was then I realised I had helped
Gisella
escape, not just from a sure disaster on the rocks, but also from the ships that might have rescued me. I had lost myself in a moment of excitement, of danger, and had strained every muscle alongside these blasted pirates to help them to safety. Was I crazy? I sat down on the hatch, suddenly exhausted and feeling strangely empty inside.

Diablo stood oblivious on the quarterdeck, his telescope fixed on the sails away to the east. It was
clear they had not seen us. I could hear the captain chuckle.

There would be no rescue for me. I was stuck on
Gisella
, and at that moment it seemed like my own stupid fault.

After dark, we changed course again. The men who had gathered in the galley for their gruel were moaning, as usual, Cook louder than any.

‘Feels like we're not headed for Tripoli after all, mates,' said Harry, his mouth crammed full of leftover goat meat. ‘Due north, it is. Jem says we're sailing back the way we came, now we've shaken off those Frenchies.'

‘It'll be biscuit and salt beef soon, just like the Navy,' warned Cook. ‘If I don't see a market town in the next week, there'll be scurvy and hell to pay.'

I was huddled on my bed under the bench. I knew where we were headed, sure enough — back towards Santa Lucia, to Isola di Bravo and the Golden Grotto. Only God, Diablo and Hussein Reis knew why. I'd take them there. I had no choice. But there'd be little chance of escape, I knew that. If we sailed in from the south, even in the ship's launch, there'd be no way of landing. The cliffs on that side of the island were a hundred feet high, and the currents made it impossible to get in close. If I tried to swim ashore, I'd be smashed on the rocks.

The only opening in the cliff was the way to the grotto, and once there, I would find no escape in the caverns. Yet if we sailed so close to home, surely there must be some way to get free.

It was no good trying to think it out. If I stayed any longer on this ship, I'd become a pirate, too. Like Carlo. It was happening to me already. Somehow I had to get home. I had to get back to Mama, where the world made some kind of sense.

But the going was slow. It seemed like a whole season's storms had blown us across the sea and then towards Africa, and now it was a real struggle beating back against the wind. The Maltese sailors called it the
grigal
, a nasty nor'easterly that tore along the tops of the waves and took summer away with it. The
grigal
had come early this season, they said. Nobody had ever seen it at this time of year. Maybe the famous captain was not so lucky after all, they said in hushed voices. Maybe we should have gone to Tripoli or even Tunis. What were we doing, they asked, struggling against the
grigal
when there were prizes to be had in the south?

Diablo, as always, kept to his cabin and spoke to no one, besides giving Jem the sailing orders. Each day they were the same: beat to the north, under as much canvas as she'd take. The sailing was tough work, the men becoming more exhausted and bitter by the hour.

There'd been no prizes since they'd taken
Gisella
herself, though she'd been a rich enough haul, Ricardo told me one evening.

‘A Spanish brigantine, she was, just launched and
full of shot and gunpowder,' he said. They'd sold the officers and crew as slaves, keeping the wine for themselves.

‘Now we have
bella Gisella
,' said Francesco. ‘We thought we'd rule the Mediterranean. We would be kings! But no.' The Vella brothers shook their heads in unison.

‘Two towns we attack,' said Ricardo, ‘but is there anything to show for this? No. Only the boy as a hostage. And what a hostage! He is seasick and cries for his mother, and then he says he will be a pirate too.'

‘Then we kidnap you, Cygno,' Francesco teased. ‘This is a very important raid. For what is a ship without a galley hand?'

They laughed, but then Ricardo dropped his voice to a whisper.

‘But what is a ship without a captain, eh? Diablo, he runs from any sail he sees. Why? He has a ship that can smash any other to pieces. Why does he run?'

Francesco motioned to his brother to be silent. Ricardo shook his head.

‘I do not understand it. But now, we go backwards. Did we forget something? Perhaps we forgot our courage. Ha!'

‘Enough, Ricardo,' Francesco warned. ‘You have said too much. Good night, Cygno.
Bonswa
.'

He shoved his brother ahead of him, down the companionway to the crew's quarters below. They were still arguing, in whispers. I sat on deck for a while longer, watching the familiar stars and listening to the ropes straining against the wind.

‘We'll be there in two days.' Jem's voice sounded from the dark, somewhere behind me. ‘If we had a decent wind, we'd be there and back by now.'

‘How long have you been standing there?' I asked, startled.

‘Long enough.'

‘Don't hold it against them, they don't mean anything by it.'

Jem slumped down beside me on the hatch.

‘Don't worry,' he said. ‘They're good sailors, those Vella boys. I've kept them out of trouble many a time. They sure grumble like sailors, though. Anyone'd think they'd been press-ganged.'

‘Like me, you mean?'

‘Aye, lass, like you.'

‘What will happen?'

‘To you? I can't say.'

‘Diablo's taking us back to Santa Lucia. He wants me to lead you into the Golden Grotto.'

‘I know.' Jem's voice was grave.

‘Can I go home after that?'

‘I shouldn't think so.'

I was silent for a moment.

‘What does he want with the grotto? There's nothing there, I've been in dozens of times.'

Jem shrugged. ‘I've no idea. Captain's a mysterious man, and that's how he likes it.'

‘Diablo and his mysteries!' I spat the words. ‘You must know some of it, Jem. How could he have known my father? Was it Diablo who sold him as a slave?'

He looked startled. ‘A slave?'

‘Do you know what happened?'

‘Quiet,' he whispered. ‘I won't speak of it on this ship.'

‘But I must know.'

‘You will, one day, but not now.'

So he did know, and one day I, too, would learn the truth.

‘I'll wait,' I conceded. ‘But Diablo — has he really stopped attacking ships? Is he running scared, like the boys say?'

‘Keep your voice down,' Jem warned. ‘No, he's not scared. He's got some plan or other a-hatching. But if a pretty prize sailed across our path right now, I'd bet you a dozen doubloons he'd be after it.'

I didn't know then how soon Jem's words would become truth.

The cry came at dawn, from the night watch peering through a murky sunrise. Two sails to starboard, downwind: a merchant ship with a smaller escort, probably a sloop. The men all thundered on deck to size them up.

‘Ripe for the picking,' cried Miller from up in the tops. ‘Greeks, I'd wager.'

‘They've seen us, too,' said Max. ‘Look! They're breaking out their topsails.'

Sure enough, in the distance, extra canvas billowed from the topmasts. They were hoisting as many sails as they could, trying to escape. At that moment, Diablo appeared on the quarterdeck. Every man stood still and waited for his word. He scrutinised the ships through the telescope for what seemed forever.

‘Boys,' he said quietly, ‘clear for action.'

A few of the men cheered, but they were drowned out by the tremendous shouting that suddenly rose on deck.

‘Hoy there, clear for action!'

‘Starboard watch, hands to the topsails!'

‘Max! Run out the jib as well.'

This time I would not help them. I couldn't even watch as
Gisella
gained on her prey. I retreated down below, where Cook was in a frenzy packing up the galley in readiness for battle.

‘There you are, girl. About time, too. Now you'll learn what it's all about.'

‘I don't want to know anything more. I'm sick of this ship, and everyone on it.'

Cook stopped what he was doing and looked me straight in the eye.

‘You listen here, princess. It may well be that you're sick of being here, but you aren't the only one.' He was glaring at me, hands on his hips, looking, despite his size, just like my mother when I was in really big trouble.

‘We're about to go into action. You don't know what that is — you've never seen it. I'm not going to lock you up like young Carlo, because I need you to help me. You are about to learn the other half of being a ship's cook — buccaneering or naval, it's all the same. This galley is about to become a hospice, and you're going to be right here with me doing everything I tell you. Do you understand me?'

I nodded. I thought I understood.

‘Right, get Carlo to bring up two barrels of water
and a cask of brandy. Then tell Miller to lock Carlo up out of the way. We don't want him damaged. He's precious goods.'

I nodded again and ran off, calling out for Carlo among all the shouting men amidships. The guns were being rolled and lashed into position with thick hawsers, and powder casks were dragged across the floor. Moggia was handing out cutlasses and boarding axes, shouting for everyone to save their blunderbuss shot until the last moment.

The ship was flying now, I could tell. Jem must have had her under every possible sail, close into the wind. There would be no stopping her.

I couldn't find Carlo anywhere. Cursing like an old tar, I grabbed Francesco and forced him to help me with the barrels. He lifted them up out of the hold easily, rolled them down to the galley in a few minutes, and ran off again, a strange, wild, fearful stare in his eyes. Everyone had the same air about them: scared and excited at the same time.

Jem stuck his head into the galley briefly, saw me there with Cook tearing up cloth for bandages, and nodded to us both.

‘No sign of the boy?'

‘Perhaps he's hidden himself,' Cook suggested.

‘Hope so.'

Jem had a dagger in his belt and a cutlass in his hand. He seemed to be more gloomy than fearsome. I wanted to wish him good luck, but held my tongue. These men, most of them anyway, weren't bad men at heart. But their good fortune today would be another's ill luck. Some of them would die, perhaps
under my hands in this dismal galley. Some of them would be terribly hurt.

But many others, perhaps, would die or be sold as slaves, like my father.

I stared at my hands. They were trembling.

When I looked up, Jem had gone. A quiet had settled on the ship.

‘What happens now?' I asked.

‘It depends how much the other captain values his life, or his ship,' said Cook. ‘If he has a high opinion of one or the other, he'll fight like a demon and so will we.' He sighed. ‘Make no mistake, it's a terrible thing. Diablo's not a pretty sight in a fight. Something happens to him, something takes him over until his blood boils. He's like one of them Viking berserkers. There's no stopping him.'

My blood wasn't boiling; it was freezing in my veins. I could imagine Diablo mad with anger or bloodlust or greed — whatever it was, I wanted no part of it.

Carlo suddenly appeared in the galley door.

‘Here you are at last,' cried Cook. ‘Come along, we're to stow you below.'

‘Not this time,' Carlo said. ‘This time, I fight!'

‘Don't be silly, boy. You'll get hurt and then where will we be?'

‘You cannot stop me,' said Carlo. ‘I am a man, not a boy, and I must fight, not cower below decks with cooks and girls.'

He sounded more scared than anything, but he brandished his sword theatrically. Everything Cook had said suddenly became dreadfully clear. I took
Carlo by both arms and pulled him close to me.

‘Carlo, listen to me. People are about to get killed and maimed and God knows what else.'

‘I don't care,' he said. ‘I am not afraid.'

‘You should be,' muttered Cook.

‘Cookie's right,' I said. ‘You are more likely to end up with your arm shot off or something horrible. A cannonball just minces people to bits. It is not glorious.'

‘There is no glory hiding in the storeroom! I am ashamed. I am a son of Lorenzo de Santiago and I do not hide.'

‘But these people are not your friends, Carlo. They would kill you if they didn't think you were worth money. They will probably kill me one day because I'm not worth anything. You can't fight for them. They're pirates. It would shame your family if you fight under a pirate flag.'

At this, he laughed, shaking himself free of me.

‘Cygno, you know so little. I am a nobleman, yes. But I come from a long line of pirates. When I am sixteen, I will become a page to the Knights. One day I may be a captain of corsairs. I am, after all, Maltese.' He bowed, one hand on his chest.

‘Excuse me.
Sku
ani
.'