Chapter Thirteen
The last of Sicily disappeared over the horizon. The Calliope cut its way through the small chop. Their destination was Pantelleria, a little island halfway between Sicily and Tunisia. It had seen civilizations come and go over the millennia.
She had been fought over by the Carthaginians and the Romans, the Arabs and the Aragonese, the Turks and the Sicilians but Pantelleria took them all to her breast, welcoming everyone with her volcanic hot springs and a white wine so sweet it was a nectar.
An uneasy truce now governed the island; trade was negotiated on its starkly beautiful shores and in the Arab influenced damusi buildings – low squat structures with black lava stone walls and stark white domes. The buildings blended in so well in the landscape that most of the time the island seemed deserted.
Kit stood at the helm, savoring the feel of the wheel under his hands. Jonathan and Elias had spent the past week checking and rechecking their charts for evidence of pirate raiders among the twenty or so land-based raids in the past twelve months.
They were confident Kaddouri’s stronghold was somewhere along the twenty-five mile coast of Tunisia from Hizir and Alavar. Equally, he could be anywhere that would directly take them to the Souk El Berka, which held its slave markets every Friday, where the pious worshipped their God in the morning and traded in human misery in the afternoon.
His gut burned with the fire of animosity and hatred. It was a perverse streak that kept him close to the Barbary Coast.
If he were a wiser man, he would go to the farthest ends of the earth and pretend his own decade in slavery never happened. After all, he was more fortunate than most. He had escaped by sheer chance during an American naval bombardment. But since then, his desire for revenge burned like the sun.
Following his escape, being fluent in English and Arabic, and having seagoing experience, he quickly earned a place as a leading hand. His share from several privateering raids on French ships was parlayed into a vessel of his own. And, before he knew it, he was captain of the misfit crew of his first ship, the Terpsichore.
It was during his time on the privateer he began to learn of others’ experiences with the Barbary Coast pirates. Little fishing settlements nestled along the coastline, quiet and self-sufficient, could go for months without seeing an outsider. Then a visiting priest, a passing ship, or a delegation from a neighboring village would arrive to eerie silence, as though the entire population – every man, woman and child – had simply vanished off the face of the earth. Where once had been the sounds of laughter and families at work, there was nothing but the mournful whistle of the wind through the rocks and the trees.
But other times there was evidence of their fate – decaying bodies, many with hacked limbs providing mute testimony of a futile struggle against overwhelming invaders.
Kit knew Jonathan and Elias were motivated in what they did today by justice. They believed they were doing God’s work. Despite many drunken conversations over the years, however, he could never get Jonathan to admit part of his motivation was revenge for the wife raped and murdered before his eyes, for his three infant children beheaded as they dragged him away in chains. And yet, despite this, he had found love again with the redoubtable Morwena Gabino, whose import business provided cover for the Calliope’s other activities.
Of Elias, he knew even less. He spoke of no family; he had just been there one night in a tavern when five men decided they liked the look of Kit’s jewelry and his fat purse. Elias made it two against five, which proved a winning combination.
Kit couldn’t own to pure motives. When he was younger, outrunning the oared craft had its own thrill, daring closer and closer to the African shore in search of profitable trade. He felt stomach-churning fear every time he saw a pirate galiot or a xebec but he made himself look at them.
Soon, outrunning them was not enough. He relished the surge of terror and power through his veins when he raided their stores, stealing from the Corsairs what had been stolen from others; what had been stolen from him.
And the people they stole back? The gratitude of those they rescued salved his conscience somewhat, but he knew the thrill of the chase, executing feats of ever more daring, had become as addictive as the opiates he had used to cauterize his memory.
On the main deck, Elias paced with the ship’s Bible in his hands, his voice strong.
And the Lord said unto Moses, Pharaoh’s heart is hardened, he refuseth to let the people go.
Let the people go. Kit’s heart beat in time to those familiar words. He forced himself to unclench his jaw. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elias cross the deck once more.
“‘Thus saith the Lord, In this thou shalt know that I am the Lord: behold, I will smite with the rod that is in mine hand upon the waters which are in the river, and they shall be turned to blood…’.”
Now it would be the crew of the Calliope who will turn the river to blood.
Let the people go.
Kit shifted on his feet, banishing a minor ache, and watched the sails trimmed. A moment later, a shape appeared on the horizon.
“Land ahoy!”
At the call, Elias closed the book and returned to the quarterdeck to confer with Jonathan and Kit. His eyes narrowed as the settlement of Pantelleria came into view.
Twenty-five miles of hostile coastline, enemy soil. It would take more than just a few bombardments by the Americans to bring this evil to an end. It would take a nation with a real army and a real navy. The British, perhaps? More likely, the French, whose taste of empire-building was fed by the unstoppable Napoleon. Kit did not have an army or a navy at his disposal. Just fifteen men and a schooner. His battles would be strategic with no quarter given, no truces and no treaties.
Let my people go…
*
Kit vaulted over the side of the boat. Water lapped his boots. He, along with Jonathan and Elias, hauled the skiff up on the beach. They picked their way around the basalt outcroppings, sleek and sinuous rock – once liquid but now solid. Determined tufts of grass clung tenaciously to what little earth existed close to the shore. But further up the slope, rich volcanic soil yielded a bounty of vines, laden with golden bunches of grapes.
“Good harvest this year,” Jonathan remarked.
“Hopefully, an equally good vintage,” Elias mentioned.
The two men discussed the merits of ordering one barrel or two, then the price the sweet dessert wine might fetch on the tables of England. Kit kept his focus on the rectangular building ahead. If there was news of Kaddouri, he would find it here and, perhaps, learn something to help them narrow down their search.
The three men ducked under the low lintel entrance and conversation ceased. Despite being the middle of the day, the tavern well outside the town was full, its patrons a mix of Italians, Greeks, Turks and Arabs, all distinguishable by their dress.
Jonathan and Elias found a table by the door. The newcomers were treated with suspicion – and little surprise. More was traded here than the fine Pantelleria wine.
“Grapes look good this year,” Kit said to the innkeeper, a lean, almost emaciated man, his skin a walnut brown, weathered by the sun. He may have been in his fifties or sixties – even older, but his arms did not show the waste of old age. He looked wiry and strong.
“Just started harvesting.”
“What’s the expected yield?”
“You buying?”
“Maybe. At the right price.”
The drinkers went back to their conversations. Kit ordered a bottle and some food and waited for the innkeeper to serve them.
“Well?” Kit asked, picking up a shiny, black olive and popping it between his teeth. The taste of the dark, flavorsome fruit filled his mouth.
“The Arabs in the far right corner,” said Jonathan, keeping his voice to a low murmur. “I recognize one, the one in green with the thin beard. He is Ahmed Sharrouf, definitely one of Kaddouri’s men.”
Kit resisted the natural urge to look. Being too curious in this place could lead to having your throat slit.
“Well, he doesn’t seem to recognize us. But as I recall, we didn’t give them much of an opportunity to.”
Kit stared at the dirty window in front of him, which reflected a distorted view of the other patrons behind. He would never have sat with his back to the room otherwise.
He identified the man Jonathan spoke about. The man laughed at something one of his compatriots said and shifted in his seat. The man’s left arm was missing at the elbow.
Elias also watched the men from the corner of his eye. “I guess he’s no longer sailing with Kaddouri, then.”
“No, but his friends might. Keep an eye on them.”
Elias raised his voice and regaled them with a story he had told a dozen times before. With the practiced ease of spies, Kit and Jonathan joined in the conversation but with full senses engaged.
After a while, he heard wooden chairs scrape over the tiled floor. Kit read a look in Jonathan’s eyes that told him Kaddouri’s man and his companions were about to leave. He acknowledged it with the barest incline of his head. Through the reflection in the dirty window, he watched them approach their table.
Sharrouf and his companions stopped on the way to the door. “Dirty infidel dogs. Sons of apes and pigs,” Sharrouf slurred in Arabic.
So – the man recognized them after all.
“You hear what I said, pig?” he demanded, this time in Italian.
Kit was proud of his men. They were hardened to insults – they had all heard much worse from friend and foe alike, although Elias wasn’t comfortable with it. His lips had thinned to a tight line.
Kit waited for Jonathan to catch his eye. The black man drew his eyes up from the table.
“You’re sure about this?” Kit asked.
“Never more certain.”
A gob of spittle from Sharrouf landed at Jonathan’s feet.
“Elias?”
“With you all the way, Captain.”
“I’m talking to you!” Sharrouf shouted, bringing the tavern to silence once more. Kit and his two men rose slowly from their seats and the Arab’s two friends squared their shoulders.
“We have unfinished business, English dog,” he continued.
“Yes, we do,” Kit replied mildly. He was aware of every eye on them, an eager front seat audience.
“Get out! Get outside with your brawling.” The tavern keeper yelled from behind his bar, a club ready in his hand. “I’m sick and tired of mopping up blood.”
Sharrouf stepped closer, putting himself right in Kit’s face, and whispered, “Make your first punch a good one, we’re being watched by others.”
*
Sophia sat under a small marquee, protected from the heat shimmering over the ruins of Syracuse on this fine, hot summer’s day. She sketched the object in front of her, a stone tablet measuring not more than five inches by three, featuring a carved relief of a robed figure. An example of a personal idol discarded by the Greek inhabitants from a time when Rome was little more than a city-state fighting off the Etruscans.
When the illustration was complete, she added a detailed description in the field journal. She might have thought it an exciting object, but it had been passed over by the dozen local men whose job it was to help the professor comb around the foundation of a Greek temple dedicated to Hieron the Second.
The men were more excited by a trove of tarnished silver coins, fused solid in a brass wirework basket. But for her, this was the real treasure – the intricate carved idols or the magnificent bas relief work on an amphora, the colors of which, when new, would have been as vivid and bright as the finest Chinese porcelain.
Out in the sun, a glint of metal caught her attention. Uncle Jonas waved his trowel in his hand like a conductor, admonishing workers to take care digging. Sophia smiled. She had presented the tool to him as a gift. She hadn’t intended to buy a trowel, in fact she had not thought to buy anything at all from the via Ballaro markets. Sophia shook her head, still embarrassed in her recollection…
“It’s not like you to be keen on spending your money – usually I can’t get you to part with a penny,” Laura had said.
Sophia shrugged her shoulders. “I would certainly like some sort of keepsake from our travels – a little souvenir for the butler and the housekeeper would be appropriate.”
She waited for Laura to catch her out, to call her a liar. It wouldn’t take much deduction to realize her sudden interest in browsing the markets came straight after the discussion about Kit Hardacre’s portrait. Laura’s look lingered, but she said nothing as they kept their pace along Corsa Vittorio Emanuele, a bustling thoroughfare where the modern neoclassical buildings lived in perfect harmony with the city’s ancient past.
The via Ballaro markets were crowded, so Sophia steered Laura around the edges, surreptitiously looking for number seven – the address on the card Kit had given her.
“I can’t see much to interest us in here,” said Laura. And, indeed, her cousin had been right. Crowded shelves filled with tools and dry goods, tea kettles and pots in tin and iron, some looking very much like English ones from home – it looked more like an ironmonger’s store. Behind the counter were small barrels with numbers and fractions daubed in paint. A larger barrel on which she had rested her hand was a jumble of tools – hammers, rasps, trowels.
“Here.” said Laura with much amusement. She had put a trowel in Sophia’s hand. “Perhaps you can make a gift of this to Uncle Jonas, I can’t think of anyone else who would delight in a place like this.”
A man appeared from the back room and Laura leaned in. “I’ll meet you at the stall outside. I’ve seen a most divine lace shawl in the most delicate shade of pink.”
The tinkle of the bell barely masked the sound of her laughter as the door closed behind her.
“Si, senorita?” said the man from the back room. Aged, perhaps in his sixties, slightly overweight, his hair white as ash, he wore an open and inquiring expression as he waited expectantly.
“Uh… Captain Hardacre?”
The man shook his head.
“No, mi dispiace, non è qui.”
Sophia had taken a few steps back, and the man started to frown before she realized she still had the trowel in her hand. She dropped a handful of coins on the counter and beat a hasty retreat.
Now, looking out across the dig site, she was pleased her accidental gift had been so well received.
Her smile dimmed. She had no idea what Hardacre meant went he slipped her the card. Maybe he had given her the wrong one, although she had no idea why the man would be carrying the calling cards of more than one person. Most likely, it had been some kind of joke – along with his pretense at friendship.
What a depressing thought.
Sophia swallowed lukewarm water from the flask beside her, removed her glasses and picked up another dirt-encrusted pot. She used a broad, dry paintbrush to sweep away some of the dust. Before her eyes, a garland of grapes appeared, followed by an arm and a head. After sweeping the rim, she dabbed a sponge in water. The terracotta immediately darkened and the incised decoration of dancers holding grape vines aloft became more pronounced. She set the jar on a plinth, opened a new page of her sketchbook and set to work.
The thought Hardacre would act so cruelly upset her more than she would admit. Sophia knew Laura would eventually work out what was amiss but, fortunately, she wasn’t here. She had accepted an invitation to spend time with the English couple they had met at the hotel.
As for Uncle Jonas, he had trouble seeing further than the end of his nose sometimes. A confirmed bachelor and a dedicated scholar, he had little knowledge or interest in the delicacy of feminine feelings. Sophia sighed and put down her pen.
A kiss. It was only a kiss from a man she did not love. So why did it bother her so much?
She closed her eyes and could see Kit smiling at her, a very particular kind of smile, conspiratorial, as though he was making her privy to a joke only the two of them shared. He was insufferable, arrogant… no, not quite… he was self-confident. No, he was vain.
Sophia shook her head. She had seen her share of fops during the season – men who spent more time in front of a mirror than a woman; whose lily white hands wouldn’t deign to pick up anything more rough than a horse’s reins. Captain Kit Hardacre may be more good looking than any man had a right to be, but he wasn’t effete, nor did she ever see him order a member of his crew to do something she had not witnessed him do himself.
She opened her eyes and shook her head. Foolish, foolish girl. This was the type of mooning she had witnessed Laura partake in during the dozen or so times over the past two seasons when she declared she was truly in love – with the handsome footman, with the member of Parliament, with the dissolute viscount, with a notorious rakehell gambler.
Was love so fickle? Surely not. She had loved Samuel for years – adored him, in fact, and her constancy had not changed in all this time. So why now?
Could it have something to do with that kiss? Perhaps, she should ask Samuel to kiss her. That would sort matters once and for all. Sophia brightened immediately at the thought. Yes, that is it exactly! Once Samuel kissed her, the odd feelings she was beginning to harbor for Hardacre would dissolve like a summer mist. Sam would be in Sicily soon. All she had to do was work out a way to make him kiss her.