Voyage of Slaves (21 page)

Al Misurata watched his ship arcing in toward the
White Ram.
He waved encouragement to Ghigno, who was standingin the prow signalling orders to his steersman. It was a foregone conclusion, the smaller vessel could not escape.

There was a crash like thunder bursting overhead. The stern of the small craft that held Al Misurata vanished in a cascade of splinters and seaspray. He found himself suddenly floundering in the bay, shocked and gasping for breath as he spat out gouts of salt water. The remainder of the boat disappeared beneath him, and sudden terror had him screeching in panic.

“Eeeyaaah! Save me, Ghigno! Save meeeeeee!”

It is a known fact that some seamen cannot swim, despite having spent most of their lives sailing the main.

Al Misurata was one such seaman.

Ned lay flat, with both front paws covering his ears. “Ben, have we been hit, mate?” Luckily it was a thought, because no voice would have been heard in the echoing, smoke-filled space where the cannon had discharged its ball.

With stars flashing before his eyes and thunder echoing in his ears, Ben staggered through the gunpowder-fogged space. He joined Joshua, who was peering down the cannon barrel, yelling enthusiastically.

“Hahaha, good shot, Caleb! You did it, the big ship’s having to halt and come about to rescue that rascal in the water. I wish there were some hungry sharks about, that’d teach him a lesson, eh, Ben!”

Ned pushed his head between the shoulders of both boys. “Hoho, does my doggy heart good to see a sight like that! I bet that was the old fellow’s idea. You tell Joshua that his grandad’s a genius, Ben!”

Al Misurata was scrabbling about like a madman, alternately sinking and clawing his way up. He was clutching frenziedly at the two guards and the rowers, who were struggling to get away from him as they fought to save themselves. Choking on seawater, the pirate screeched like a demented animal as the
Sea Djinn
hastened to his aid.

“Heeeelp! Ghignooooo! Heeeeeeeelp!”

The Corsair was urging a boat crew to hurry themselves, whilst other crewmen began flinging ropes and cane fenders from the decks. It was a scene of total chaos.

Ben shook Joshua’s hand heartily. “Your grandfather is a hero, and a very wise old man!”

Leaving the
Sea Djinn
to her rescue mission, the
White Ram
drifted calmly off. After awhile she cleared the bay, heeling slightly as a lively breeze sent her scudding out under full sail into the open Mediterranean Sea. Accompanied by Caleb the master gunner, Ben, Ned and Joshua hurried out into the fresh air of the open deck. Ben and Ned joined Eli, who was acting as steersman, but Joshua and Caleb linked their arms about the shoulders of Ezekiel, Abram, Zachary and other crewmen, who had formed a circle. They danced slowly around, stamping their feet and singing.

Old Eli patted Ned and winked at Ben. “What white ram ever headed a flock like mine!”

CAPE PASSERO OFF THE SOUTHERN TIP OF THE SICILIAN COAST.

THE MAN SHOOK A SMALL BOX OF corn grains, watching the pigeons circling overhead. Whistling softly to the birds, he spread a few grains on the sill of the loft. One by one they began landing, pecking at the corn before entering through the light wire grill.

He whistled and clucked patiently, biding his time until his champion homing bird, a fine, big, bronze-feathered pigeon, came to perch on the sill. Immediately it had entered the loft, the man went inside and retrieved it. He stroked its head gently against his cheeks, making soft, soothing clucks as he removed a tiny cylinder which was attached to its leg.

Having read the contents of the little scroll from the cylinder, he left the loft. Mounting a donkey, which was tethered outside, he set off for the coast, urging the beast to a trot with his bare heels.

Padre Marlanese read the letter three times, slowly, following the lines with a dirty fingernail and mouthing each word.

The pigeon man raised his brows. “Well, Padre, is good information worth its price?”

The fat little wrecker and coast robber rummaged in his voluminous waist wallet. He drew out four coins. “Three silver or one gold, my friend?”

The man did not hesitate. “One gold. Half your silver is tin, gold is always best.”

Marlanese parted reluctantly with the worn golden coin. “You are lucky I am not a man who is easily insulted.”

The pigeon owner took the gold and left immediately.

Padre Marlanese, the False Priest, lived on his boat, a long, flat-bottomed skiff. He commanded six such craft. Like a small gang of sharks, they preyed upon anything that moved through the waters from Passero up the Sicilian coastline to the Strait of Messina, and the Italian mainland on the other side above Taormina. Smaller craft he would attack; the larger ships, the padre could lure onto the rocks with his considerable skills as a wrecker.

Wheezing laboriously, he heaved himself from a battered armchair, which was nailed to the deck inside a little shack containing the tiller. His second in command, Bulgaro, a sombre-faced villain with a set of whalebone teeth which had once belonged to a Dutch merchant, smiled eagerly as his chief clambered ashore. Marlanese was clad in stained and greasy clerical garb, with a wide-brimmed hat. He resembled a fat, black beetle as he waddled along the strand.

Bulgaro joined him. “Is the news good, Padre?”

The little wrecker smirked, holding out the message. “Here, you long-faced heathen, read for yourself.”

Bulgaro’s countenance returned to its usual mournful look. “You know I can’t read words, what does it say?”

The False Padre chuckled. “Excellent news, for those who know how to deal with it. It comes from my cousin Ghigno. His master, Misurata, wants us to stop a ship which should be coming our way. He wants a fair-haired boy who sails with her, the rest is plunder for us. Good, eh?”

Bulgaro clacked his teeth, which were a few sizes too large. “A fair-haired boy, does he want him dead or alive?”

Marlanese shrugged. “Either way will do, what do you care? This ship is a swift vessel called
White Ram.
It was heading away from Malta, on a course which my cousin Ghigno thinks should take it right by here. If it follows the trade route, it will coast up past Siracusa and Catania, then head off to Melito at the toe of Italy. But it is my guess that the
White Ram
will never get that far.”

Bulgaro cackled. “We’ll wreck it on the rocks!”

The False Padre looked at Bulgaro scornfully. “Donkey! It is too fine a prize to wreck, we’ll take the vessel unharmed. I’ll make it my own.”

Bulgaro removed his teeth and began carving at them with his dagger. “What d’you suggest we do, Padre?”

Marlanese shot him a disgusted glance. “I suggest you put those things back in your mouth, before your chin beats your nose black and blue. We’ll lie in wait for the ship, myself and three boats off the coast at Siracusa, you and three other boats offshore. That way we’ll trap her from both sides at night, and take out her crew silently with blades and strangling nooses, watch and deck crew first. It will be over quickly.”

Bulgaro clacked his whalebone teeth together. “Aye, Padre, like that Slavian trader two years ago. They were dead before they had a chance to wake up.”

Marlanese eyed his companion sourly. “As long as you can keep those teeth from clacking. If they heard them they’d think they were being attacked by a band of Spanish dancers with castanets!”

Bulgaro muttered indignantly, “I can keep them quiet when I want to!”

The False Padre ignored him, continuing with his plan. “It should go smoothly, providing we’re not seen. I’ll come in from landward with three boats to one side, you from the sea with our other three boats. Ten crew to each craft should get the job done well.

“Go to the villages of Pachino, Noto and Avola, get the men together. Tell them to come armed and bring them here to me. Say there is a rich payday to be had for any who know how to kill and keep their mouths shut. They know that there is better money to be had following me than chasing fish, or scratching a living from the earth. Go now!”

Marlanese waddled back to the armchair on his boat, where he sat honing his blade on the sole of a boot, dreaming of the riches to come.

From the small port in their cabin on the
Sea Djinn,
the Rizzoli Troupe had glimpsed the encounter between
White Ram
and the larger vessel. They had also witnessed Al Misurata’s boat being sunk beneath him. Otto nodded his big, shaven head regretfully. “Ach, such a pity that man was not drowned or eaten by der sharks!”

Mamma nodded her agreement. “At least the ship got away unharmed, so we know Ben and Ned are safe.”

Serafina questioned Mamma anxiously. “You think Ben and Ned are aboard that ship?”

Signore Rizzoli smiled reassuringly. “For sure,
ragazza,
why else would Misurata bother with it? The
capitano
of that ship is a very brave man, to face the slaver and his men down, and escape as he did.”

Mummo chuckled. “I’d like to be a fly on the wall of that pirate’s cabin right now. He didn’t look in the least pleased when they hauled him aboard dripping wet!”

The clown was right in his assumption—Al Misurata was in a furious mood. Clad only in a silken wrap, he paced the cabin in a rage, venting his spleen on Bomba and Ghigno.

“Why did you not fire upon them before they had a chance to sink my boat? Must I forever be surrounded by fools and halfwits?”

Bomba kept silent, knowing it was the best course in the present situation. The pirate ignored him, staring fixedly at Ghigno, demanding an answer. “Why?”

The scar-faced Corsair tried to sound reasonable. “But Lord, we thought only of your safety. You were between them and us, we could not risk cannon fire!”

Al Misurata knew Ghigno spoke the truth, but he was not prepared to accept any explanation in his irate mood. “Hah, or you’re not a good enough shot! Did you send word to my agent, the one who keeps messenger birds?”

Ghigno nodded vigorously. “With all speed, Lord, I sent my best man. Your message is on its way.”

Al Misurata poured wine, but only for himself. The irony in his voice was not lost on Ghigno. “Oh good! Let’s hope that cousin of yours, Padre Marlanese, can read. Right, set a course for Passero, there’s too much time been wasted idling in these waters!”

It was Ghigno and Bomba’s turn to take their wrath out on the crew, which they did with malicious pleasure. Shortly thereafter, the
Sea Djinn
was heeling around the point of Gozo Island, bow on for Cape Passero on the southern tip of Sicily.

When they were out in open water, the Rizzoli Troupe were allowed on deck to take the air and stretch their legs. La Lindi immediately set about charming one of the more gullible deckhands. With the information she had elicited from him, she joined the others on the fo’c’sle.

“We’re sailing to Sicily, after the ship Ben’s on.”

Augusto Rizzoli was much cheered by the news. “Eh,
bella
Sicilia! It’s only a short hop from there to Italy. If we dock there I think we should try to jump ship at the first opportunity, my friends.”

Mamma shook her head. “All nine of us, including Mwaga and Poppea? What chance would we stand?”

Her husband shrugged. “Any chance would be a good chance, my love. We’ve got to start helping ourselves. We cannot rely on the boy and his dog forever.”

Otto nodded. “
Ja,
you are right,
mein Herr.
I wonder where they have stowed our wagon?”

Buffo nodded toward the midship hold. “Down there, but it would be impossible to take it with us if we had to run for it.”

The German strongman lowered his voice. “It is not the wagon I am thinking of, but the gun hidden underneath it. If they have not already found it, that gun will come in handy.”

Mummo objected. “Hah, that gun is an ancient wreck. It must be bunged up with sand and dust from travelling under the wagon. A gun like that would be more dangerous to the one using it than to anyone he was firing at!”

Serafina joined in the conversation. “But nobody knows that except us. I think Otto is right, the very threat of a gun gives us an advantage—it would come in handy during an escape.”