Voyage of Slaves (36 page)

Signore Rizzoli felt hope for the first time in awhile. “Ah, Benno, I know that good boy will help us if he can!”

Shortly before that, Ben and Ned were having to endure a sound telling off from the proprietor of the Grey Swan. The finger of Annalisa was wagging back and forth under their noses like a metronome—the old lady was in full spate. “And where, may I ask, have you two been, eh? Just look at you both, have you been wrestling with one another in that mud? You deliberately disobeyed Janos Cabar, what did she tell you? Stay inside, and don’t dare go out wandering. Now look at you, you . . .”

“Old one, give your jaw a rest before it seizes up!” The leader of the smugglers entered the room. She lifted the old lady off her feet and hugged her, frowning at the mud-coated boy and dog. “So, you’ve been out, eh?”

Ben explained, the words tumbling from him in a rush. “We saw the ship, it docked this afternoon. Misurata has sold my friends to the agent of some count. The cart is in the forest outside of town, Ned, I mean I, saw it, we can take you there, but we’ll have to be quick, they might be gone before long—”

Janos silenced the boy’s deluge of words with a wave. “Whoa, not so fast! Annalisa, run a bath, get some dry clothes for this muddy urchin and clean his knee up, he’s dripping mud and blood everywhere.”

Ben protested, “But there’s no time, they may be taken away over the border someplace, we’ve got to—”

Snaaap!
The bullwhip cracked an inch from his lips as Janos interrupted, “You two would frighten the horses, looking like that. Now go and get cleaned and changed, then I’ll decide what to do. Don’t argue with me. Go!”

As they went, Ned made sure he brushed his mud-plastered coat up against Pandora, commenting maliciously,“This is all the fashion. Here, try some, everyone’s wearing it out there today!”

Spitting and yowling, the white Persian cat arched her muddied back.

Half an hour later, Ben, with a freshly bandaged knee, sat down beside the smuggler in the dining room. Annalisa had rigged him up from her slop chest, with some sailors’ clothes and a pair of cut-down sea boots. Ned’s fur was still glossy from the soap and water he had been rolling about in. They wolfed down cheese, bread and soup as they outlined the situation to Janos. She listened intently, then outlined a swift plan.

“Right, here’s what we’ll do! I’ll take just two wagons, six horses to each wagon, and an extra six for the cart. No fancy schemes, we’ll just hit them as hard and as fast as we can. That’s the best thing to do in a situation like this. Ben, you and your dog will be at the rear of the back wagon again, with Magda and Katya. It’ll be your job to pelt them with the bombs, create as much confusion as you can. I’ll get the six horses hitched up to the cart, it’ll go like lightning.”

Ned sent his master a thought. “What about Poppea?”

Ben explained about the troupe’s mare. Janos had the answer immediately. “I’ll cut her loose and tie her to the back of the cart, but she’ll have to keep up. Once we’re on the road, we’ll head northeast, for the convent at Muggia. That place is like a fort, I’m sure you and your friends will get sanctuary there. Well, how does that sound to you, boy?”

Ben’s clouded eyes began to gleam with the prospect of the daredevil idea. He handed over the pouch of gold coins to Janos. “It sounds great, friend, here’s my part of the bargain!”

She opened the pouch, extracting four more coins, and handed the rest back to him. “This is quite enough, you may need more gold before you’re all safe away. I’ll be leaving you at Muggia. Once you go into the convent, I’m off. The idea of being cooped up with a pile of nuns doesn’t sit too easy to me!”

Annalisa cleared away the dishes, chuckling drily. “On your way then, Sister Janos!”

The smuggler grinned. “I’ll see you when I return for the rest of my wagons and stock, Grandma!”

Outside, the drizzle had ended; it was a quiet, clear night. The Istrani Wolves saw to the harnessing of the extra horses, then piled into the two carts. Katya patted Ned and winked at Ben. “Well, what’s the orders?”

The strange boy laughed. “You’ll be smoking your mother’s pipe again, mate. We’re planning on attacking some Barbary slavers and freeing my friends.”

The big girl narrowed her eyes fiercely. “There should be more than just powder and smoke in those bombs, a load of musket balls and scrap iron, maybe. That’d put a stop to their slaving.”

Ned agreed mentally. “What a savage young creature— splendid idea, though. Blow old Miseryguts to smithereens, wouldn’t the world be a better place without him!”

There was no time for further discussion, as Janos Cabar leaped onto her black stallion and cracked the bullwhip. Reinforced by the extra horses, both wagons whirled off into the night.

OTTO TOOK THE TINY SCISSORS HE used for clipping his moustache and began working on the flooring of the cart. Signore Rizzoli, wakened from a half-slumber, stared at the strongman. “Herr Kassel, what are you doing?”

The big German placed a finger to his lips. “Keep your voice down. If I can get one of these boards loose, we could escape through the floor.”

La Lindi joined them. “But what about the guards outside? They’re still awake, aren’t they?”

Otto continued probing with the now-bent scissors. “Frau Lindi, it is two hours past midnight, and they are only men who have been awake all day. They must be half-asleep by now. It is a chance I am willing to take.”

A small fire glowed beneath a canvas awning set up between the boughs of a tree. Al Misurata and Ghigno sat under the canopy, taking turns to nap. The pirate kicked the Corsair lightly, passing him a flask of wine.

“Here, drink some of this, but stay awake. Let me know when Dreskar’s man shows up for his goods.” Huddling down into his cloak, Al Misurata closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the forest around him.

Ghigno drank from the flask, then sat staring into the fire. Immediately he began to blink. He drank again, deeper this time, looking away from the fire. Picking up a stick, he tossed it, catching a guard on the back. The man turned. Ghigno mouthed the words, “Stay awake!”

The guard nodded and stood to attention. After another drink of wine, the Corsair found his gaze turning back to the flames. Then his eyelids started to droop. He yawned silently, allowing his head to nod forward.

Ghigno was almost asleep when he heard the far-off rumble. The air was still and close. Again the rumble sounded, this time slightly closer. With his chin now on his chest, he sought an explanation for the dull, rumbling noise. Probably thunder, they might be due for heavy rain before dawn. Ghigno fell into a slumber.

Magda glimpsed the firelight through the trees. It was difficult keeping the teams to a canter. She tossed her lighted pipe back to Katya. “Here we go, girl!”

Janos Cabar kicked her stallion into a gallop, cracking her bullwhip as her Istrani Wolves bayed.

“Howoooooyaaaaah!”

They hit the camp like a sudden thunderbolt. Ned was howling like a wild beast as Ben passed the bombs to Katya. Touching off the fuses, she slung them, one at the fire, the other at the closest two men. “More, Ben, more, keep them coming!”

“Howoooooyaaaaah!”

Musket shots sounded out; a man’s cloak took fire; explosions showered earth, pine needles, branches and foliage widespread. Two women leaped down from a cart. Grabbing the extra horses, they swiftly lashed two to either sides of the shafts and two in front. Jumping up onto the cart, they spurred the new team out of the camp.

Ben caught sight of the hobbled mare. “Poppea!”

Ned leaped from the wagon and ran to her. Luckily it was only a slipknot around Poppea’s front legs. As Ned dragged at it, the thing came undone.

The black stallion, Hari, was up on his hind legs, kicking and flailing out at guards on both sides. They fled from the steel-shod hooves, the whip that was like a deadly snake, snapping and stinging everywhere. Poppea took off after the troupe’s cart.

Katya hurled another bomb at the wreckage of the fire, and another which sent up a spray of water from the stream. Then they were off, rattling along the northeast trail. Ned made a spectacular leap, landing on top of Ben, and sending him sprawling in the back of the wagon.

“Howoooooyaaaaah!”

Even the Rizzoli Troupe took up the wild cry as the rescue convoy hurtled off into the night.

Behind them, the camp looked as though it had been struck by a tornado. Guards lay moaning, caked in sludge, many clutching injuries they had sustained in the whirl-wind attack. Some threw themselves headlong into the stream to quench their burning cloaks.

Ghigno had been blown clear of the canvas awning. He sat up, spitting mud and wiping dirt from his eyes, staring about vacantly. Crawling over to the smouldering shelter, he pulled his master from it. Al Misurata was unconscious. His turban hung in rags from his brow, blood oozed from an ugly wound to his right ear. The Corsair dragged him to the stream, and splashed water on his face.

“Master, Master, can you hear me? Wake up!”

After a few moments, the pirate’s eyes flickered. He stared at Ghigno, blinking to bring his face into focus as he croaked, “Whu . . . ’appened?”

The Corsair snatched a half-consumed flask of wine from a guard who was reeling about in a daze. He held his master’s head, allowing him to sip slowly. “We were ambushed by a crew of women. At least I think they were women. I saw the boy and his dog!”

Al Misurata stared at him uncomprehendingly; all he could hear was a noise like a high-pitched siren. He grabbed Ghigno by the arm. “Say again?”

Realising that his master had been deafened by the blast of the bombs exploding, Ghigno mouthed words, trying to suit actions to them. “Ambush, we were attacked, I see boy, Ben, and dog!”

Al Misurata sat up straight. He winced, touched the wound on his ear and stared at the blood on his hand. “Boy, dog, how?”

Ghigno was at a loss to say or do anything. He held the wine flask to his master’s mouth, but Al Misurata dashed it away, hauling himself to his feet. He stood swaying momentarily, then rasped out, “Find the horses!”

Ghigno dispatched two guards who looked reasonably fit to seek out their mounts. The pirate had taken off his waistband to bind up the wounded ear when the Corsair attracted his attention, mouthing, “What are your orders?”

The pirate cocked his good ear. “Say it aloud!”

Ghigno placed his mouth close and shouted, “Master, what are your orders?”

Al Misurata heard him faintly—his hearing was coming back slowly. He drew his sword. “They must die, all of them! Rally the guards, make sure their weapons are loaded and their blades are ready. We will hunt the boy and his friends down like dogs, but first we need horses, transport. Listen carefully, here is what we must do!”

In the hour preceding dawn, Count Dreskar’s aide rode into the devastated camp. Both he and his servant were mounted on horses. Four more horses followed, harnessed to a forbidding-looking coach. It was plated with metal and iron bars for the transport of wild animals—or slaves. Two men sat on the front driving seat, another two sat on the back steps. They were dressed like footmen, but armed with swords and muskets.

Ferenc Kuvan stared about at the ruined camp and the two men who stood awaiting him, Al Misurata and Ghigno. Observing no courtesies and giving Al Misurata no formal title, the aide asked abruptly, “Where are the slaves, what happened?”

The pirate folded his arms, looking disdainfully away as Ghigno replied.

“We were ambushed, they escaped. My master will have them back with you before eventide. Wait here with your men, we will need your coach and horses to hunt them down.”

Emboldened by the sight of the pair in their sorry state, the aide forgot his fears of the previous day. His hand strayed toward the butt of the musket he had tucked into his belt as he addressed them scornfully. “You are in no position to demand anything from me. No one in the employ of Count Dreskar would permit common slaves to attack them and run off free!”

Ghigno nodded. “So you refuse the requests of Al Misurata, Lord of the Barbary Coast?”

The aide’s confidence was growing. “I could pursue the slaves and take them myself. Your lord has lost them. Only a fool would agree to such outrageous terms!”

Al Misurata raised his arm and dropped it suddenly. The air resounded to the crash of rifle fire from the surrounding trees. When the last echo had died, Ghigno and the guards hurried forward and subdued the whinnying horses. Al Misurata slit open the shirt of the dead aide and retrieved the pouched money belt from about his waist. He hefted it in one hand, remarking to the corpse of Ferenc Kuvan, “Only fools defy the wishes of Al Misurata.”

The bodies of the servants were thrown from the coach as the pirate’s guards manned it. Mounting the two spare horses, Ghigno and Al Misurata raced off along the northeast road immediately.